


Fall Away

by Dissonance



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr., Case Fic, Episode: s19e08 Intent, Explicit Language, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2019-09-11 21:56:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16860991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dissonance/pseuds/Dissonance
Summary: An extra day was granted to Ms. Parcell to arrange care for her mother. In that time, Sonny Carisi found solace in the bottom of a bottle, not realizing something was slipped into his drink.--Inspired by Olivia's line in s19e01, "The whole time she's asking me questions, all I could think of isI'mthe one who asks the questions."





	1. Trapdoor

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this while half asleep on melatonin over the course of ten terrible days, neglecting my responsibilities in favor of working on this monstrosity. i've read through it two times but there are bound to be mistakes and errors, and i sorta hate how it turned out but there's no real reason to not post it anyways.
> 
> i promise barba will be in the next chapter, i needed to get carisi's very apparent rollins-crush out of the way first. i absolutely cannot wait to write them together, pairing sonny's reluctance to tell the truth with barba's habit of easily peeling that same truth from people.

He was well equipped to deal with rejection. He could very well deal with a simple no, or a gesture of refusal, unlike the people it was his job to investigate. It always hurt, definitely, but Carisi was able to walk away, content to try and sleep his wounded heart out of mind.

However, the one thing he couldn’t deal with had reared its ugly head that morning. He’d paused outside, feeling the cool of the air biting his nose, chilling his breath. He had watched the careless coattails of the bartender from the night before glide out of Amanda’s room, an alluring, warm smile on his face, eyes crinkling. Sharing that same expression Rollins owned as she leaned on the doorway, wearing a loose blouse, hair messy and necklace crooked.

Carisi felt his already injured heart crumble apart at the seams, the pieces trickling down deep into his stomach, cold flashes not linked to the weather rushing over his person like ocean waves. He swallowed and cleared his throat, watching her sea blue gaze follow the man as he entered his car, an enchanting, teasing bite on her lip. His grip on the drinks he’d brought for the two of them loosened, and he’d almost dropped them.

The motel door clicked shut and the bartender’s car started up with a hum. The empty space where his love had once burned brightly smoked like watered down embers, hope extinguished and remorselessly smothered. He took his eyes off his partner, ducking his head and managing to turn, to leave. He felt weighed down and heavy, his eyes beginning to glisten. He was better than this--than crying. He needed to do _something_ to dull the bitterness, the sick feeling settled in his stomach, to quell this dissonant betrayal and be capable to do his job and forget about this dispute. So, that meant he had to find a way to drown his sorrows.

Thank god they had an extra day here.

 

 

The burn of whiskey was good at muddling swirling, conflicting emotions, each shot sweeping up dusty pieces of hurt and woe. He flexed his hands around the glass, arm laying limp against the marble counter of the bar, before bringing it back up to his lips. As it emptied, it burned like fire, but he was used to the sting, the acrid but addictive taste. He wanted it. Drowning himself in scotch was much better than any alternatives, better than falling back to his teen habits and doing regrettable things.

Swallowing thickly and adjusting the cuffs on his shirt, Carisi sighed. Another glass slid across the counter-top and into view, so he slipped a bill on the table, money being quickly snatched away. His back ached for him to sit up but he really didn’t want to do anything but sip at the caramel liquid swirling around in the mug beneath him. Having woken up with a hangover, he was already equally if not more wasted than last night, and despite the ever-present aching in his heart, he had to bring that girl in tomorrow--arriving tired and drunk wouldn’t sit well with Amanda, who expected him to drive four hours to New York. He didn’t want to fight with her, piss her off, or make her feel bad, even though he yearned to be bitter. He didn’t want distance, but he knew that’s what they needed--what he needed.

So, downing the glass, he peeled himself from the counter-top, setting the cup down and motioning to the bartender, mumbling thanks. It wasn’t the same guy, and distantly he frowned at the realization that the guy from before was probably with Amanda right now. Already discouraged, he got to his feet, and an odd flash of vertigo ran over him, nausea digging uneasily at his stomach. He caught himself on the side of a smooth table as the world lurched, legs wobbly, unstable.

_I might’ve had one too many._

He caught the sound of a couple men laughing when his knee jammed against a chair, near tripping himself due to his drunken clumsiness. Embarrassment rose to his face and he blamed his gangly limbs, reaching the door with a scowl, face hot with shame at his weak nudge to get it open. He reached out to try again and flinched when a tough, tanned arm flew in from his peripherals, beating him to it. He caught the door before it could swing shut in Carisi’s face.

He curled his fingers around the door’s metal handle and shook his head, refusing to face this dick, knowing he only wanted to get a kick out of him “I got it,” he uttered indignantly, internally cringing at the slur of his own words. He pulled it open wide enough to walk through, but regretfully not without the help of the newcomer, whose shoes he could hear slapping on the wet concrete, trailing only a few feet behind him. A distant sense of nervousness crept into his mind and he attempted to quicken his stride, but the hasten only worsened his steadiness. Before he knew it, that push to walk faster had called another horrible, oppressive wave of nausea to take over his person, and he bent over as pins and needles filled his legs and numbed his knees. He reached out for the wall, but moved too late. His feet tripped over each other and the pavement rushed up to meet his face.

He groaned against the concrete, clenching his eyes shut as the pain from the impact caught up with him, a rough stabbing from the right side of his skull. exhaling sharply, he rolled over, pushing his palms against the ground. He tried to pull himself up, but his muscles only spasmed and gave out, feeling weak and disconnected, like after you got a shot. 

Though he was now relatively panicked, his heart did not correlate. It stayed sluggish, slow, just as loud as the blood rushing passed his ears.

“You sure you still _got it?_ ” came a rough, southern voice, footsteps creeping closer, the noise heightening until dirty checkered shoes found their way into his gaze. At the sight, his stomach tightened and pulled and something terribly warm rushed up his throat, rusty liquid sputtering from his lips, dappling those black and white shoes brown. He gagged, his vision going blurry, unable to make out the face of the person who grabbed him by the shoulder and lugged his non-responsive body off the path. He tried to move, to push the guy off him and stagger to his car, but he could feel the sensation leaving his limbs, only managing to weakly hit at the man’s torso. He felt the same strong grasp loop itself under his arms, holding him up, a chuckle building in the body pressed up against his back.

“He’s a fighter, isn’t he?”

“Le’ me go,” he implored, the words instinctual. “I ain’t-- I’m not good.”

_I’m not good for this._

The man laughed again, sharp and loud and right in Carisi’s ear. “Oh boy, nah, you’re definitely good,” he argued, dragging his hand along the smooth fabric clinging to the detective’s side. They were moving now, the heels of his feet dragging along pavement, before dropping off onto the black top. The lights of the bar were distant, and he worriedly wondered where he’d been carried to. “Why do you think I chose you?”

“Please,” he grinded out, head lolling lamely against the man’s chest. The burn of the whiskey seemed to be spreading throughout his body, tingling and hot, like he was on fire. He heard a car door pop open and though still slow, his heart skipped a beat, the man jostling his lame body into the backseat. He writhed against the leather, parting his lips, trying to breathe. “I don’t- I don’t wanna-”

A body climbed roughly atop his, the weight heavy against his pelvis. Gnarled hands made their way under his vest, stroking each button and pulling it free, one by one. Carisi struggled senselessly, shivering, sweat rolling down his back. “Please, le’ me go.” 

He knew now that he’d been drugged, that time was slowly ticking away until he wouldn’t be able to move at all, until he was locked in a hostile stranger’s car with no way of calling for help. 

“Wh- what’s your name?” he asked with a tone of desperation, trying not to think about what he might use that information for. He moved his hand, reaching upward, grabbing for the man’s hair, to feel it, to see it. Once his fingers touched and his eyes wondered, however, his fingers were laying back against the seat, a resounding crack reverberating around the interior of the car.

“ _I_ ask the questions,” the man growled, getting nice and close to Carisi’s face. His eyes were hazel with thin strips of amber, hungry and exhibiting a manic glint. “I bet you can’t even feel that, can you?”

“Wh-” he started, but his attacker’s hand secured itself around his neck, squeezing. Carisi squirmed but the struggle was useless, the man forcibly tilting his head to the side.

His eyes widened. His wrist. It looked sprained, maybe even broken, red and swelling. The guy was right--he _couldn’t_ feel it, not at all, not yet.

His breathing quickened, out-matching the slow pace of his heart, and the hand released. He sucked in air greedily, knowing he was losing sensation, tongue numb and tasting like cotton.

“Why are you doing this?” His last chance, a desperate grasp for information. If this was truly it, he didn’t want to die begging.

His attacker leaned down, and Carisi tried to buck, but still those chapped lips pressed against his own in a rough kiss. A foreign, wet object pushed into his mouth, raw and shameless. He groaned against the strain, back struggling to arch, to resist against what was happening, but he was unable to stop it. He hated this--he hated the foul-tasting slime being merged with his saliva, the touch on his shoulders, clutching at his half-unbuttoned clothes. How those hands worked quick to pull fabric off, grasping at random, aiming to rip and tear.

Carisi breathed gratingly through his nose before his mouth was freed. He gasped, eyelids fluttering, making out the deep hazel within the blur.

“You taste _so_ good,” the man hummed, his wide, charming grin obscured by the rapidly duplicating black dots in his vision. “I knew you would.”

 

 

The morning sun filtered through the yellowing shades over the window, shining speckles of light along the dirty gray carpet. Among the odd stains and dirty footprints, there laid a dappling of large, crimson mottles, tinted maroon by the dull darkness of the motel’s atmosphere. Towels and sheets were haphazardly strewn about, draped over the bed rail, sitting on the nightstand and hanging off the bathroom’s door handle, a bloody handprint embellished clumsily onto the golden knob and red fingerprints trailing across the white finish. Each fabric had been originally pale, but found itself newly discolored due to a dark, rusty influence. Even the sheets were covered in blotches, especially the ones curled up around the shivering body of Detective Dominick Carisi, half naked and thoroughly unconscious, clothes tattered and dirty.

A bird tweeted kindly from somewhere outside, loud and sweet enough to be heard through the thin walls, even this late in the season. But the soft chirping was quickly interrupted by a terse, sharp rapping of knuckles against the front door, disrupting the room’s static, lifeless hold on its occupant. A moan drifted through the air, and the mess of bloody sheets and blankets shifted, eyes fluttering open and focusing on the opaque ceiling above.

_He saw checkered shoes._

The knocking sounded again, louder and more urgent this time, ringing throughout the room and driving nails into an already aching head. Carisi moved to grasp the side of the mattress, to pull himself off the bed, but cringed back at a sensation akin to a knife stabbing into his forearm. He stared, perturbed, at his swollen wrist, as if remembering a dream. The mottled dark blotches were worrying, to say the least.

“Carisi?” Amanda’s voice greeted from outside, knocking once more, rousing him from his stupor. He sat up, groggy, listening. “Hello?”

As reality set in, an overwhelming sensation of pain returned to his body, mingling with the after effects of the drugs and alcohol still present in his system. They weren’t helping anymore. He was sitting and it hurt, the realization sending uneasy needles into his spine.

_Bile spattered over the pavement, soaking into coarse, patterned fabric._

He parted his lips and felt his voice crack before any words could even come out, a rattling cough forcing its way from his lungs. He covered his mouth and felt his hand shake, Amanda’s knocking becoming more persistent, worry creeping into her tone.

“Comin’,” he gritted out, hoping it was loud enough for his partner to hear. “Just give me a minute.”

Forcing the covers away and pushing himself off the bed, he got to his feet. The pressure was immense at first, but this time he was able to catch the wall, keeping himself upright, holding his breath.

_You’re okay. It’s fine._

He stumbled numbly towards the bathroom, reaching out and holding onto anything he could to keep him afloat. The corner, the bloody doorknob. Distastefully, he rubbed his palm against it, smudging the stain until it was no longer visible.

The bathroom was thankfully clean, save for a first aid kit sitting torn apart in the sink, along with a smooth smear of crimson across the porcelain surface. He grabbed the kit and tucked it back from where he’d found it, before turning to face the mirror.

His chest tightened at the sight of his face. He didn’t remember much of last night, when he arrived here, staggering into the place with blood dripping down his legs and his brain aching, fluid oozing from two gashes across his back. He had barely been able to see, to distinguish the shapes in front of him, and it was a miracle he was lucid enough to contort his body until he was able to reach it and sloppily stitch it. But, through all of that, he didn’t exactly remember seeing himself, having never reviewed the facial damage in favor of taking care of his body.

There was a distinct cut in his lip, the slit dark, almost black. The right side of his jaw was bruised and colored a muddy purple, the same color trickling along his cheekbone on the opposite side. His fingertips ghosted across the warm skin, tracing the outline, feeling how inflamed, how hot it was. There was a knick near his eyebrow and the skin around his eye was reddened, the lid thankfully not swollen over or bruising. Blood trailed down from his temple, the ugliest violet peeking just from underneath his messy hair. He rinsed his hand under the faucet and carefully washed it away. Even then, the way his hair swept over his forehead made him feel much too young, vulnerable.

He couldn’t imagine how his body looked. He didn’t want to see the wounds again--more so, he didn’t want to be naked again, but what he had on was ruined and he had to get into something new. With his face looking like this, he would do anything to avoid seeing the extent of his bodily injuries. He already felt them stirring, the wrong, terrible pain in his hips, the intense stinging of his shoulder blades and aching of his chest. Quickly, he went over ways to avoid it; maybe closing his eyes like an insecure school girl, or just keeping his gaze locked on a wall, relying on muscle memory to do everything right.

Crisp knocking interrupted Carisi’s thoughts and he jumped, swearing as a pang ripped up his legs from the jostled movement. “Hold on,” he shouted, agitated, gripping the sink’s edge and tightening until his bloodied knuckles were white.

He received no verbal response, but he swore he could hear Rollins let out an exasperated sigh, like she was tired of him. The cold, bitter feeling from the night before ate back at his chest, and he shook his head, heart squeezing.

She would never love him. No one would. He’d gone to mourn and instead of solace he’d gotten- gotten r- ra-

He pounded a fist against the porcelain, feeling a few of the scabs adorning his knuckles reopen at the action. He brought the hand up to his chest immediately afterward and swore distantly, realizing how loud that must’ve been. Somewhere in there he heard Amanda speak, but his ears were ringing and he couldn’t register what she said.

“I’m- I’m _fine,_ ” he replied aimlessly, an irritated growl on his lips. “Dropped something. I’ll be right out.” He refused to look back at the mirror and instead chose to hurry out of the bathroom, trying to hide the rampant discomfort on his face at each step, despite his obvious limp. 

He got undressed with his gaze averted and shoved the bloodied left over clothing into his bag. Thank god he’d brought a spare dress set, and hadn’t fallen prey to Amanda’s soft teasing about how they only needed civvies. He swiftly layered the new, tight fitting suit over his battered body, swallowing winces, even as he bent his legs and struggled to put on his shoes. Afterward, he hastily kicked the sheets and stained blankets underneath the bed, hiding any and all evidence that could be linked to what had happened. It’s not like he’d killed anyone, or even committed a crime. There were no legal consequences for wishing to keep your privacy--he only pitied the poor people that would clean this room after he left. He wished he could tip them, but he couldn’t do that without drawing suspicion.

He slung the loose strapped bag over his shoulder, reading the clock on the wall for the time. He wasn’t too late. They’d planned to leave at 9:00am, and it was already 11, but that wasn’t too bad. He’d expected worse, having only gotten back to his room at witching hour. He hadn’t gotten much sleep, but then again it was better than none. Besides, he had a job to do, Heather Parcell had caused a woman’s assault and she needed to be brought to justice, sooner than later. She’d gotten a day to find care for her mother, but it was time. How he felt didn’t matter, especially not now.

He made his way to the door, anxiety squirming restlessly beneath his skin. He placed his hand on the handle and tried to ignore the shock of the cold metal, turning and pulling it towards him. Outside, it was shining. The birdsong from earlier was gone but the sun rained down from above, melting any ice that tried to accumulate the night previous. Still chilly and crisp, it was cold enough that Amanda’s confused gasp turned solid for a few moments, before the mist drifted away into the atmosphere.

Carisi wordlessly walked passed her, tucking his hands into his pockets and squinting against the sunny rays, walking slow so the limp wasn’t as noticeable as it was otherwise. He heard her shoes clack against the pavement in retaliation, coming up quick behind him, the noise releasing paranoid chills down his back, sending his heart off into a frenzy.

He exhaled as only Rollins caught up with him, her blonde hair bouncing on her shoulders. _You’re fine,_ he repeated to himself to stay grounded, to keep his mind from focusing on other distinct images and sounds.

“ _Sonny,_ ” Amanda breathed, her voice intense and stance stiff. Carisi paused, keeping his eyes forward, despite the pang in his chest that tone had earned. “What- what happened?”

“Nothing,” he said back without thought, unable to help the gruffness in his voice. He flexed his hands by his sides, picking at the skin around his fingernail with his thumb. He motioned forward, where he already saw the car parked, their young convict sitting idle in the back. “Come on, we need to get her to Manhattan before Liv thinks we’re takin’ another vacation day.” The slur was only slightly present, easily dismissable as an after effect of sleep, not a drug’s lasting hold on his tongue. He continued to walk, momentarily leaving Amanda standing frozen in her spot, but of course the blonde was back by his side before he could blink. She reached out for his arm, wrapping her thin fingers around the flesh tightly. 

He was unable to suppress the reaction to a stab ripping up the artery of his forearm, rippling like sudden burns throughout his bone. A quick, pained noise escaped his mouth and he ripped out of her grasp, holding the hand closer to his body than he had been previously.

“Liv’s not gonna care about vacation days once she sees you like _this,_ ” Amanda argued, her eyes trained on the dull bruising peeking out from the cuff on his shirt. “I couldn’t get a hold of you all yesterday, Carisi, or find you anywhere, and then you just show up in the morning, beat to hell?”

Carisi blinked, nervous. “I didn’t just show up,” he blurted, defensive. “I was here, sleeping, like you usually do while staying overnight for a job.” the jab was vague and mostly unintentional, but the subtle clench of Amanda’s teeth sent guilty satisfaction rushing through his veins. One small victory that he happily latched onto.

“Yeah?” she remarked, her expression morphing from worry to agitation quicker than the concern had formed. “What were you doing before that, huh?”

Before that.

What was he doing before that?

_He’d thought it was raining. His clothes were damp and liquid tapped quickly against the path underneath him, like droplets falling against the pavement. He felt his ankle give out on him but blamed it on a slippery street, even as he tumbled toward the ground, the dry, dusty ground, concrete cold and untouched. It wasn’t raining._

_His clothes were still wet. Liquid pooled underneath his body but he lied there, listening to the sound of distant passing cars, his quick, sporadic breathing, the gross sniffling and disgruntled sobs shaking his chest. He heard the slapping of shoes on pavement and he clenched his eyes shut, the tears multiplying as he felt the familiar press of his own service weapon up against the back of his skull. Like Tom Cole all over again, but much, much worse._

_There was that laugh, the one he’d grown accustomed to in the past few hours. Then, the voice, that sickening southern drawl._

_“Get up,” he commanded, kicking the back of Carisi’s pants, eliciting a cry from the detective. When he complied, lugging his own heaving body from the cement, the man scoffed, almost sounding offended. “Wow, you sure ain’t a fighter anymore.”_

Clearing his throat, Carisi shoved trembling fingers into the pockets of his dress pants, letting his thumbs hang out loosely in an attempt to look calm. “Nothing,” he repeated, nodding his head and avoiding Amanda’s eyes.

She refused to let it go. “Then where’d that come from?” Rollins berated, crossing her arms and gesturing vaguely at the injuries to his face.

“Nowhere,” he said, again, flashing her a stubborn, bittersweet smile, before taking off toward the car, limping unsteadily and feeling eyes on his back the whole time.

 

 

The soft vibrating of the car under his feet and familiarity of the wheel sang to him like a mother’s lullaby. His eyes stayed trained on the road ahead of them, slightly overwrought at the idea of being at all drunk or high while in the front seat of a vehicle. Even if it was basically out of his system, any chance of harming Rollins in any way made him squirm.

The blonde resided in the seat beside his, and from his last glance he was sure she was talking to somebody, stubbornly engrossed in the text on the bright screen. He knew she wouldn’t be so quiet at any other time, and he felt her eyes grace his face every once in awhile, the darkening bruises growing rapid on his injured wrist. The presence of their passenger sitting slumped in the backseat had taken away any possibilities of discussing those things over the four hour drive. He was sure Amanda did not want Ms. Parcell to be privy of her partner’s weakness, in case the woman would try and use it against them. He doubted she would- the kid was no threat in the waking world, without the power of a fake face and an online shield. He was unsure exactly how long it had been, sitting in this sordid silence, but he knew they were a little over halfway, over two hours gone by. The sun the sky had disappeared behind dense grey clouds, showing signs of either rain or snow, but due to the risen temperature it would most likely be the former.

_He’d thought it was raining. It wasn’t._

Clearing his throat, Carisi moved his good hand off the wheel, running his across the bridge of his nose, a habit. He adjusted his posture in the seat and reached forward, returning to normal. Or, apparently not, because heard the shuffling of clothing to his right and Amanda sighed, setting her phone on the console with a dull clank. 

“She’s asleep,” Rollins informed, and Carisi felt any hope he harbored dissipate. He nodded, squeezing the leather of the wheel.

“Well, she’s goin’ on trial soon,” he spoke, blinking the blurriness out of this eyes. “Better to be well rested.”

God, how he wanted to sleep. It was a miracle he hadn’t already succumbed to the heaviness of his eyelids.

“So,” Amanda started, her voice settling on that same edge from before, a sigh escaping her lips. “You gonna tell me anything, even give me an excuse?”

“I fell,” Carisi blurted sarcastically, thinking of the stupidest and easiest to disprove excuse in the book, habitually trying to lighten the mood.

Instead of that soft laugh Rollins made that sent heat rising to his face, he was rudely greeted with another annoyed scoff. “A bullshit excuse, then,” she grumbled, and Carisi’s heart sank, like it always did when Amanda was upset.

He only remembered bits and pieces, the only things completely clear being the beginning and the very end. Whenever he thought about it, more details tended to pop up, uninvited and unwanted, slipping through undefined gaps in the carefully constructed walls of his mind. He would try to avoid that because obviously, he didn’t want to remember anything else, and secondly, he was driving, and self-victimization wasn’t going to do very well for his lucidity.

No, he wasn’t a victim. It was just a mistake that he would make sure to avoid in the future.

“It’s-” Carisi started, voice catching in his throat as he struggled to find a better way to put it. “It’s really not your business, Amanda,” he mumbled, trying not to sound spiteful. “Just something personal between me and- and a friend.”

“I don’t think _friends_ do that to each other,” he cringed at the harshness in her voice, and he shook his head, taking a turn onto a highway edged with woodland. There a pause, and for a moment he was sure they’d leave it at that, a hanging statement for the rest of the ride. Of course, though, that’s not what happened.

There was movement to his right and he felt a press to his wrist, before Rollins’ soft voice cut through the air. “Where’s your watch?”

_Fingers trailed restlessly down his wet bare back, heavy breathing to his ear. He’d given up on trying to move, instead allowing his eyes to read over the words imprinted into the buttons on the door. Window, lock, window, lock. The sweep of the up-down switch and the soft edges of a plain red sticker, almost peeled away._

_“Oh, what’s this?” his attacker purred, hands licking from his spine to his shoulder, running down his arm. His wrist was elevated, limp fingers dangling down, unfeeling. His watch was unlatched and pulled away, hand thumping back against the soft car seats. He stifled a groan. “An apple watch, hmm? You fancy_ and _a cop, huh, Dominick?”_

_The name barely registered in his drugged mind, sensation returning to his chest for a moment, reminding him of his badge, missing. He didn’t remember it being found, taken, but he didn’t remember completely losing his shirt either. Even now, the holes in his memory were vast and overpowering, just as numb as his physical form._

_His body didn’t react when his neck was lifted up, the watch roughly pushed in front of his eyes. He blinked stupidly, taking a few seconds to process that the small screen was cracked, bent in the center. His last method of possible communication, destroyed, unlike the way his phone had been carelessly discarded from out of the car’s window as they raced down some Virginian highway. Now, he had no way to call for help. No way to escape._

_He was going to die here._

“ _Carisi!_ ” The shout woke him from his memory and Amanda’s hands were on the wheel, leaning over him in an attempt to take control of the car. Other car’s horns were blaring and at first, he didn’t know why, but reality rushed back into view seconds later, when Rollins saved them from running straight off the road and into the forest beside them.

“Shit, _shit,_ I’m so sorry,” Carisi spouted, eyes wide as he re-tightened his grip, helping Amanda set them driving forward. Heather Parcell was wide awake now, and he heard her crying out, demanding to know what was going on.

Amanda’s voice lowered, almost growling. “Pull over,” she spat, angry. “Now.”

Frowning, he did.

They were all breathing heavily, and in all the time he had to breathe he hadn’t noticed the indecipherable pain emanating from his ribcage. Internally, he swore, but he didn’t have time to talk before Amanda had slammed the door and he was forcibly dragged from the car. 

“‘Manda-” he tried, the woman dropping her grasp on his tie as he stumbled to a halt, shoes grating against the hard, pebble-littered ground. “What the hell?”

“No, what the hell to _you,_ ” Rollins hissed, stabbing an accusatory finger at his chest, blue eyes narrowed. “You coulda killed us. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t-” he began, stepping away from the uncomfortable press on his front. “I wasn’t thinking, Rollins, I’m sorry, I really am, but I won’t do it again.”

“Are you even gonna tell me what that was about?”

Carisi crossed his arms, a shrill sense of anxiety creeping down his neck. Apprehensively, a chuckle traveled up his throat and slipped passed his lips, before he met his partner’s eyes, his own irises shining, an odd flash of twisted daring overtaking his person. “Why should I tell you anything when _you_ won’t even tell me about your little _fling_ , huh?”

If Rollins could’ve turned red, she would’ve. Her hands balled by her sides and at first he was sure she was going to slap him, but instead the blonde pushed angrily at his chest. He knew Amanda was stronger than she looked, but it only justified that point as fire flared in his chest, weak legs pushed onto their heels before completely collapsing, like a dainty stack of cards.

The back of his head slammed against the pavement and his vision flashed white, matching the new, red hot pain lacing through his nerves. He laid there, eyes wide but seeing nothing, body numb and unable to move. Like before.

_He lied there, silent, tired, lulled to sleep by the vibrations of the car and hum of the engine, only disturbed by the offhand bumps in the road. Unconsciousness wouldn’t claim him, and he didn’t know where they were going, only that his hips burned and bled. He knew that the man now sitting in the driver’s seat was not one for patience, nor a show. He did not build up. He did not tease. He just did what he did without hesitation. Just like now, when the window slid open and the muffled sound of rushing, cold air filled the car, the blurry shape of his own phone disappearing over the dull edge._

_He tried to move, a noise akin to a moan escaping his mouth. He wasn’t gagged, contrary to what he’d expected. This man had enough drugs to keep him incapacitated for days. Enough drugs to kill. He’d seen at least seven of those small, clear bottles, containing the flaky powder that must’ve been poured in his drink, the one that in hindsight was obviously not from the bartender. The labels had “Ketaset” printed across the top in sharp blue font, but that was all his drunken mind could make out, the rest appearing as black scribble huddled amongst a white and yellow background. He tried to retain the information, but it was hard--his short term memory was failing him. As if to prove the point, when his body was jostled from another hole in the road, he had to re-realize that the car was running._

_And then it wasn’t._

_They had stopped. The passenger door flew open and he was grabbed by the ankles, pulled roughly from the car until his head banged against the cold asphalt. He heard waves, soft, lapping waves, the creaking of old oak trees and rustle of foliage. He saw the stars above, twinkling and watching, partially hidden beneath lilac clouds._

_“We’re gonna soak you clean, boy,” The hiss interrupted the sounds of nature, sucking it away, only leaving the sight of hazel eyes and approaching checkered shoes. His breath hitched as he heard the familiar clanking of the man’s belt, and he mumbled, trying to plead, even though he knew it was futile. “But not after one last round..”_

His teary eyes blurred his vision and the sky lightened, turning from a dark purple to a desaturated blue. The stars disappeared and the clouds turned light and fluffy, floating aimlessly across the horizon. 

The man leaned over him, a hand falling on his chest.

“ _Get away from me,_ ” he snapped, scrambling as far as he could manage, confused and surprised when those actions transmitted and his limbs followed his instructions. He could move, could speak, the slur of his words was gone, only oncoming tears threatening to compromise his walls. 

He brought a hand up to his eyes, wiping away the liquid and rubbing it on his pants. He pushed himself onto his knees, letting his fingers drag through his messy hair, feeling for a wound at the back of his head.

There was none, nor a bump. 

He was brought back into the present by Rollins’ voice, and he remembered. He’d been driving. He’d almost driven them off the road. Amanda was rightfully angry and she’d pushed him over, and his shoulder blades were screaming. No, no--it wasnt her fault. She’d nudged him and he’d fallen, because he couldn’t stand upright. Even now.

Her hands caught him by the shoulders as he almost stumbled forward, holding him steady, expression soft and sympathetic. It felt sour.

“I’m fine,” he assured, relishing in the gentle touch but burned by it at the same time. He pulled away, stumbling across black top until he leaned against the car, catching his breath.

“Sonny,” Amanda started, less angry and more serious. Carisi pressed into the car, staring at the ground, feeling woozy, nauseous. “Please, Sonny, you gotta tell me what happened.”

_Lie. Think of a lie. Get her off your back._

“Your--your boyfriend,” he said ruefully without thinking, immediately regretting it at the sharp intake of Amanda’s breath. “I, uh, confronted him.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she bit back, with no ill intent.

“Yeah, yeah, the one you slept with,” he restated, quick.

_Spit it out._

“We fought.”

Amanda nodded, crossing her arms. She believed him after two words. Her worry was beginning to drift away. She was confused, interested.

“You went to beat _him_ up?”

A nervous, taken aback laugh fell out of Carisi’s mouth involuntarily, and he shook his head, running a hand over his face. “No, of course not,” he swallowed. “I went to him to uh, to--to ask him what made you-” he sputtered, useless, still trying to hide the fact that he was smitten with his partner, even if it compromised a much bigger cover-up. “I asked him if he had a good time, that’s it. He didn’t like that, thought I was, um, tryin’ to get back at him, or you.”

“That’s assault,” Amanda said, automatically. 

Carisi stood straighter, relieved at the lack of an additional word in her statement. “I’m not gonna press charges,” he explained, knowing it was illegal to convict on a lie, and that if he was hospitalized they would find much more than wounds from a simple brawl. Not even considering the fact that he hadn’t even seen Amanda’s bartender friend since he left her motel room two days before. “I shouldn’t’ve gone lookin’ for trouble--the Lieu doesn’t need to know.”

“Sonny-”

Carisi shook his head. “Amanda. Please,” he all but begged, voice straining. “She doesn’t need to know. No one does. It was my mistake--let’s just leave it at that.”

He waited a moment, their blue gazes locked. He tried to force sincerity into his eyes, even with Rollins’ calculating, prodding stare, knowing that if the detective had any reasonable doubt, she would betray his wishes. He knew what Lieu would do if Rollins told her, and he refused to be on the wrong side of an interrogation room. He wasn’t the victim that they would make him out to be.

Amanda’s lips parted and Carisi’s heart seemed to pause, his blood ceasing to run as he waited for his sentence. She blinked once, twice, her hand tucking into her pocket before she sighed, conflicted.

“Fine. Let’s go,” She turned toward the car, pleased at her assumed success at getting his story, before turning to him with a glare. “But I’m driving this time.”

He smiled, relieved. “Okay.”


	2. Air Catcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consent is a funny little thing. Despite existing legal implications, it's a little less frowned upon to administer unwanted medical care than to rape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long, but things happen and my life is currently a dumpster fire. im also not very happy about the quality of this chapter, and its unnecessarily long. so i apologize if its too wordy or structured bad, and for any spelling mistakes. but enjoy nonetheless (feel free to correct me if desired)
> 
> I have a document of information to help me keep structure, especially because of how I wrote multiple endings to this chapter. Currently, the bare skeleton of this story is being set in stone, including the description of new side characters and already preexisting ones.
> 
> I also changed some of the details to fit more symbolism cause yeah, you know Disso loves his symbolism. Changes include:  
> ▪the lacerations are now on carisis back  
> ▪minor dialogue fixes

The door shut behind him, his keys clattering with an unceremonious jingle. Drab moonlight cast across the dreary furnishings and draped itself along the walls, decorating the tiny flat with only a simple glow. He removed his shoes near the door and hung up his coat, staring at the dark flooring illuminated by the windows, feeling like a wilted flower, languid. The wood underneath his feet was cold and for a moment he couldn’t find any motivation to move, to step away from his spot near the door, to locate the narcotics in the restroom. After a moment of quiet deliberation, he elected that downing medicine was much preferable over standing in place like a lethargic statue. The leftover pain of the night before still laced through his bones, and he found himself reluctantly yearning for the numbness he’d experienced against his will. Each press of a heel to the ground brought him an intense ache, a perverted reminder, reassuring him in the worst way that what had happened was real. He swallowed his woes and continued, venturing down the hallway and onto softer, warmer carpet, before transferring to the tile in his bathroom.

Like he’d promised himself, he dug into the medicine cabinet, spotting the red and white bottle of acetaminophen wedged behind an empty glass of cologne. He plucked it carefully from its place and uncapped it slowly, working passed the child-lock with less ease than he was accustomed to. The lights were off but he felt two pills fall into his hand, small and colorful. He didn’t bother to fetch water, instead dry swallowing them as he turned the corner into his room.

He practically melted at the sight of his bed. The curtains were pulled shut and there was no light, the folds of the comforter only barely visible behind the gloom of the atmosphere. His initial intent of hopping carelessly onto the bed was obviously unrealistic, so he settled with easing himself over the edge of the mattress and onto his back, letting his muscles slowly loosen. His head sunk into his pillow, a memory foam one one of his sisters had gotten him for his birthday. It was incredibly comfortable, due to both the expensive, silky material and the fond memories it usually brought him. Now, though, there were none of those nostalgic visions of family reunions and gifts wrapped with love, replaced with a dreary melancholy that ate at his heart. He sighed, shutting his eyes in the dark room, before turning onto his front, face submerged in the pillow. The position was one he would often find himself in after a long night’s work, when his eyelids were heavy and he could barely keep them open. In the present, however, a sensation of distant alarm rose through his body, like there was someone standing in the corner, appearing only when he was blinded.

_Heavy breathing sounded from behind him, loud in his ears. He was indistinctly aware of his body rubbing in intervals against the car seats, face pressed into the leather, a faint discomfort radiating from somewhere down his back. The few colors he could make out bled together and lurched in time with his vision, forward, back, forward, back. Window, lock, window, lock._

His eyes stayed shut as the images played. His breaths were coming in thick and heavy, and he felt his eyes begin to water, hot tears welling up and pushing his waterline, threatening to soak into the pillowcase below. Despite the disconsolate feelings present in his mind, he felt disconnected, like he was watching himself laying stiffly in the dark room, gasping for the air he couldn’t find. He saw his fists clench the bed-sheets, tighter and tighter until he couldn’t feel fabric between his fingers anymore. He was gagging, needing oxygen, but his lungs wouldn’t take any in. Then, there was something in his bed, crawling on top of him, clutching his shoulders and leaning in.

A mangled gasp tore from his throat and he opened his eyes, finding his limbs curled around his torso, pain flaring in his chest, hands over his face. He immediately inhaled as real air greeted his lips, cooling against the wet trails of tears still burning on his skin. He stayed in that position for awhile, letting his brain catch up and realize that he was alone, that he was safe. He waited until the trembling of his body retreated to a gentle shiver, until his face was dry and his chest was still.

He wanted to sleep, but he was afraid to close his eyes.

So all night he stayed like that, drifting in and out of slumber, feeling empty and keeping his gaze trained steadily on the blankness of his wall. The world ran by him and it felt like mere minutes until the sun’s glow pressed readily against the curtains, casting the room in a rich shade of orange. He only moved when he heard the blaring of his bedside alarm, sitting untouched on the nightstand. He turned his head and felt his neck pinch uncomfortably, agitated from the odd position he’d kept it in for the past few hours.

Cringing, he reached an arm out, flexing his hands and watching the bruised flesh shift and pull against bone. The noise concluded as he pressed his hand down on the snooze button, unused to being awoken by the digital clock instead of his phone or watch.

It was because he left for work long before that alarm could go off.

He sat up with urgency lacing his veins, the sloppily stitched wounds on his shoulder blades flaring up at the movement. His reluctance to leave was overpowered by adrenaline as he forced himself out of bed, stumbling to his closet to pull out a clean coat, a farce that’d make it seem like he’d gotten fully changed. After that, he made his way to the bathroom, fixing his hair and dutifully ignoring his face. He moved without thought, used to this routine from performing it for years, skipping choice things in favor of time. He fell into line, letting his mind focus, pushing any other thoughts or intentions from his head.

Soon he was climbing into his car, hands on the wheel, turning onto the street. In his head, it was apparent that he was arguing with himself. He thought yeah, he could lie again, tell Amanda that he overslept, somehow manage to completely avoid Liv like when they’d gotten back from West Virginia, duck his head and busy himself whenever she exited her office. Though, he knew that was improbable, if not entirely impossible. He was late. He’d clock in, then have have to say why he was late. Explain himself. Face her head on and see himself crumble under her stare.

 _No, no, I won’t break apart in front of anyone, I can’t, not again._ He’d crafted a story that he could stick to, a mask that he could wear. It wasn’t a big deal, and absolutely no one could know. He was strong enough to keep the tale steady.

As the miles ticked by and the traffic thinned, somewhere in the annals of his mind, he recognized rationalization.

 

 

 

The station was bustling by the time Carisi arrived. His stride was quick as he walked towards his unit, passing other officers in the hallway. His pulse ran with anxious doubts but he managed to keep it off his face, moving swiftly, eyes trained on the floor beneath him. In hindsight, he should’ve known relying on memory and luck wouldn’t work out, especially not at a busy time like this.

Colliding with another person’s body hurt more mentally than physically. His sore limbs complained at the sudden exertion but the embarrassment of messing up again drove a cold spike into his stomach and brought sweltering flames to his face. His long legs tripped from beneath him but thank god he’d gotten good at catching himself. He managed to slap a hand on the wall, gripping it hard enough to save him from falling over. But when you barrel into someone, there’s always a second party. The sound of papers and folders spilling across the floor met his ears and he tensed, shaking his head in dismissal. 

His vocal chords tightened and he habitually blurted out an apology, gaze traveling up to meet the person he’d run into. His heart might as well have stopped when he was met with ADA Barba’s face, his fingers pinched against the bridge of his nose, staring at the floor with an aura of annoyance directed directly at the bumbling detective.

Sonny swallowed.

“Really, Carisi, you never watch where you’re going, do you?” the man uttered sharply, irritated sarcasm oozing from his tone. He sighed, glaring with dismay at the mess of his files, probably their new case, scattered on the ground. “Great.” He mumbled, dismayed.

Losing his previous hesitation, Carisi fell onto his knees to right his wrong, hands working fast to gather the papers into a neat, straight pile. He knew they’d most likely be out of order, but this was the best he could do. Meeting Barba like this wasn’t exactly ideal, but at least the attorney didn’t seem too concerned with his physical health like everyone else. He doubted he’d mention anything like this to Liv; that prosecutor was married to his job, and the case details were the only things Carisi had ever heard him discuss.

The again, Liv and Barba _were_ very close. It was wrong to assume that just because the lawyer acted closed off toward him, it meant he acted that way with everyone.

“Here, counselor,” Carisi said softly, gathering himself back up to his full height. He handed the stack over and met the exasperated eyes of SVU’s ADA, shrinking under that diligent glare. “You know, sorry, again.”

At first, there was no response. The displeasure of Barba’s expression shifted, his gaze hardening and filling with something akin to curiosity. Trepidation once again surged through Carisi’s veins and he straightened his posture, nervous as the files were plucked away.

“What’s wrong with your face?” Barba queried, seemingly intrigued. His eyebrows were furrowed, like when he was invested in a client’s story, and he seemed to be taking in the detective’s entire body, searching.

A stream of discomfort wove around him like snakes. Barba was a smart man, trained to see passed people’s falsehoods and fabricated stories. He’d seen it in court and he could see it right now. He was analyzing, inspecting, looking to see if he was holding himself oddly or favoring any body parts. He stayed still, resisting the urge to fix his limp, attempting to seem somewhat calm. Besides, it wasn’t like Barba paid enough attention to him to know if he was standing differently than normal, right?

Disregarding the question like he’d never heard it, Carisi shook his head. “I’m late,” he informed in a hasty tone, slapping on a polite smile. His words were forced, and he couldn’t even get out an explanation. “I’m really sorry, I’m just in a hurry.” 

“Carisi-” Barba began, but Sonny wouldn’t let the attorney derail his plans. He knew how quickly he would’ve broken under that alluring, intelligent gaze, and despite the odd pang left in his chest from prematurely ending their conversation, he would not be compromised again. Rollins had come so close last time, but by dumb luck he managed to get her off his tail.

Rounding the corner, Carisi was aware his current state was messy, to say the least. He didn’t know if it was the avid sensation of loneliness that never seemed to leave him that was causing this, or something else entirely. He loved Rollins, her blonde hair and sparkling eyes, her upturned smile and confident attitude. But with men, after years of internalization, it was harder to separate idolization from something more passionate. That was his dilemma with their DA. He didn’t know if he wanted to be him or be _with_ him. 

_Not like anyone, least of all Rafael Barba, would want you._

Swallowing uncomfortably, he made his way passed the bullpen. The chatter of officers and typing keys didn’t cease or change at his arrival, and for that he was thankful.

“Hey, Carisi!” came Fin’s voice, and Sonny begrudgingly slowed his pace, eyes focused on Liv’s office and nothing else. “We started to think you weren’t comin’ in today.”

“Yeah,” he muttered distastefully, not meeting the older detective’s eyes in favor off reaching his destination, knocking on the glass of the ajar door. He cleared his throat.

“Carisi,” Olivia greeted boredly, her tone cheerful but weighed down by fatigue. Assured that she was not busy or unable to see him, he stepped in, wringing his hands nervously behind his back.

“You’re late,” the Lieutenant commented idly, her eyes trained on the paper underneath her. Carisi felt tense. He was sick of this; couldn’t they get it over with? Why could no one look at him immediately, get the shock out of the way? He only wanted to work, not to be fussed over, like some insolent child. 

“I know, I know I am, and there’s no good excuse,” he explained, gesturing mildly with his hands. “I just--I lost my phone in--when we picked up Heather Parcell, and my uh-” he cleared his throat again, knowing he was grasping at straws. “My alarm didn’t go off, but that’s besides the point. I’ll go.” He motioned toward the door, but of course, Olivia had noticed. Everyone would notice. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?

_You don’t want to be alone._

“Wait, Carisi,” Liv spoke, her eyes _alarmed,_ of all things. “What-”

“Not to be rude or anything, but it’s not your problem,” he interrupted, desperate to not hear _“what happened to you?”_ again. He shifted his weight onto his left leg, feeling relief from changing his stance. “I just- I’ve explained this to Rollins already, so if you wanna know, please just ask her.” Liv seemed taken aback at his words, her lips parting slightly, staring at him. 

Frustrated, he broke eye contact, waiting for a response. When he received none, he took it as an okay to leave.

The day progressed as normal. Sure, he got a few odd stares, but it wasn’t bad enough to disrupt his routine. A man had come in shortly after Carisi arrived, claiming his sister had been assaulted, physically and sexually. Lieu assigned Rollins and Fin for the starting investigation unfortunately, thus leaving her empathetic detective to focus on paperwork. Thankfully, however, Heather Parcell’s trial came not long after, and he was obviously going to attend. He figured it’d be more fitting for Amanda to come as well, but Fin and her were held up with the newly dubbed Turner case. So, at around noon, he tidied his desk and grabbed his keys, heading out of the station alone and toward his car.

Unlike the station, the traffic of the courthouse was slow when he got there, climbing the steps and waltzing through the doors. He reluctantly spotted their second offender, the wrestler, dressed in expensive formal wear that greatly contrasted his usual rugged appearance. Something in Carisi’s stomach shifted at the thought of what he’d done, and he felt his mind start to stretch, to wander uncomfortably. He remembered how they had found Katy, her clothes torn, makeup smeared down her cheeks and hair wet.

Unexpectedly, a red-headed woman in business attire pushed passed him, rudely knocking their shoulders together. Despite the intention of the action and the sting from his shoulder blades, Carisi was momentarily grateful, as it refocused his mind back to the golden halls filled with criminals, victims, and officers alike.

The Monster chatted idly with his legal representation, standing tall and confident. Carisi walked wordlessly passed him and his lawyers. Despite his earlier wake up call, he couldn’t not think about what he must’ve done to that girl, attacking her, pushing her down, ripping off her clothes and giving her no chance to escape.

_The lock on the door clicked shut. The front window rolled down and cool air streamed in, curling around his numb limbs, turning his slow breaths into fog. The car rumbled to a start and Carisi moaned, knowing they were still near the bar. He thought maybe, just maybe, if he was loud enough someone would notice. Though, he could not muster the strength to force any intelligible noise from his lips, and soon he heard them pull onto the main road, sealing his fate._

_A sentence, a punishment._

The fog faded and he found himself sitting in the courtroom, seated next to the same lady from earlier. He watched shakily as Rafael Barba collected his notes, pushing himself to his feet. A weaselly defense attorney returned to his spot next to the defendant, adjusting his tie and clearing his throat, as if daring Barba to try to present their case.

As the trial began, Barba’s usually crisp voice sounded almost blurry, like he was underwater. Carisi’s heart beat slow and unsteady, loud in the form of blood rushing passed his ears. He couldn’t hear words--just mumbles, distant sounds. The lights were fading and his skin felt hot, too hot. The silhouetted form of their pacing DA quickly flashed white, grey, and finally, silver.

_The knife swung slowly back and forth, and he saw his own feverish blue eyes reflected in the blade. He shifted against the car door, frightened at the fact that sensation was slowly returning to him, instead of how he thought he’d feel--relieved. He was not relieved by any means. He had begun to feel the tearing of places he’d rather not think about, the absurd ache of his injured wrist. Though dangerous, the bruises growing across his chest hurt the least out of all of his wounds, at least when he was like this, laying still and pretending his sobriety levels weren’t rising. It wasn’t like being thrown into deep, freezing waves wouldn’t do something to wake the mind. Now more than ever, he wished the cold shock hadn’t thrown his body into action. Because now there was an object designed to harm being dangled in front of him, and this time his nerves wouldn’t fail to respond to pain._

_“You can speak now, Dominick,” the man urged, pausing in his hypnotic swinging of the weapon in favor of bringing it uncomfortably close to his prey, rubbing the blunt edge of the knife along the outline of Carisi’s shoulder. “If you can walk, I know you can talk.”_

_He gritted his teeth, spiteful. He would not call that walking. He could stumble, stumble with a gun leveled behind his head, the safety off, a finger on the trigger. Ready to go off if he ran, or signalled to the road, or took one odd step off the path._

_“Fuck you,” he snapped, finding his voice incredibly unfamiliar in that moment. It was small and quiet, despite the harsh intention of those words._

_His pitiful defiance was met with a derisive chuckle, like most of his pleas and remarks. “There’s my fighter,” the man purred smoothly. He cringed at the observation, a mass of angry confusion welling up inside of him, swirling and bubbling. Why was this man excited? Was this a cause for excitement, for cheer and pride?_

No, _his mind supplied him unhelpfully,_ It’s not.

_“Now, I usually don’t say why,” the man continued, adjusting his position over the detective, coming closer. He placed his hand on Carisi’s shoulder, and he resisted the urge to buck away. “But you’re good and special, aren’t you? So I’ll tell you, boy. You’re the only one who gets to know.”_

_Twistedly intrigued, Carisi found the motivation to go along with it, like he would do while sitting in the interrogation room._

_“I’d love to know,” he responded automatically, cautiously playing along._

_“This is what I leave, what your kind never put together,” he pulled Carisi forward, so the detective was bent oddly, head buried in his attacker’s chest. His clothes smelled of weed and whiskey, of blood and sex. He waited, muscles tightly wound, distinctly unnerved by the position. “All of them have it when they’re found. They’re too stupid to see it, to see my beautiful, delicate marks.” A smile lit up the man’s face as he placed the blade down, pressing roughly and dragging it along quick and easy, tracing his right shoulder blade, then the left. The pain wasn’t instantaneous, and only showed itself after the knife was pulled away and he was allowed to straighten. The blade itself was slick with blood, the liquid tinted black in the dim light. The pain could only be described as lackluster, however; disappointing, but in a good way. He felt a hiss climb up his esophagus like the water from the lake, but that was it in terms of a reaction. He noted that the man’s movements were robotic, practiced, like he’d done this before many times._

_“I steal all of their wings, Dominick. Without their wings, the body withers and rots. They’re usually dull, ugly like stone. But yours, boy? Yours are golden.” He stifled a laugh, manic gaze excited and prideful. “Your kind doesn’t notice the stolen wings, so the birds, they all fall away. You will, too, because they never slow down to see me.”_

_Looking passed the insane, almost incoherent babble, Carisi cocked his head. “Wait, do you want to be noticed?” he queried almost breathlessly once the snickering of his attacker settled. “By the--the police?”_

_“Oh yes, I want to be seen by the police, the public, to be known by everyone, so they all know what can be taken and what can stay,” he grinned, the look in his eyes distant, as if he were imagining his name in the papers. “I have a whole novel of dead birds on my tail, Dominick. They were all so, so good, but not like you. I’ve never had a cop before.” he paused, running a thumb down his blade, bringing the blood up to his nose. “Maybe you’ll be the one to get me out there, hmm?”_

_He could imagine him on the stand. He would be happy, belated at the circumstance. He would be smiling gratefully at the detective’s face, affirming Carisi’s story. It would be exactly what he wished for, what he craved, even more than his assaults._

_Conflicted emotions rose in Carisi’s chest like a wildfire. He knew what he could and couldn’t do, and the realization hurt more than the man’s identifying marks seeping blood down his back. Now, though, pressure was starting to grow underneath his skull like a jackhammer on the concrete. The car and the man’s blurry face were fading from view, swirling together in a mix of dark, cool toned hues, before contorting to warmer ones, oranges and browns. Loud sounds mixed indistinctly, and the temperature heightened. The wildfire soared and it was hot, too hot._

“On the counts of defamation, we find the defendant.. _guilty._ ”

He was still sitting back near that woman, by the doors. Nausea and vertigo ran through his body like he’d he was back on that pier, overlooking the black water below, body swaying inches from the edge, and not sitting in a courtroom. The jury girl who had spoken stepped backward, nodding her head in affirmation. At this, Heather Parcell was forcibly escorted from the stand, her face red, angry.

They’d won the case. They’d won the case, but he couldn’t latch onto the victory.

He stayed motionless as Barba gathered his things, the attorney moving to discuss the win with Liv. Sweat rolled down Carisi’s forehead, his sides, but something even warmer ran down his back. A breath exited his lips as he reached his hand behind him, pressing against the fabric of his dress shirt. The pressure made his body go tense and he swallowed, fully knowing what he was going to see before he even brought his bloodied palm into view.

“Dammit,” he hissed, taking a quick glance around the room to see if anyone noticed his plight and odd movements, before rubbing the stain on the side of his pants. The nausea he sensed earlier began to newly fester, along with the headache, morphing from a dull pounding to an oppressive throb. 

He stood, abruptly, and stalked out of the room.

Another shirt, ruined and stained, in the middle of the day where it wouldn’t be acceptable to rush home and change. Maybe he could be extra careful and keep his overcoat worn loosely, but that was too much of a risk to take. He couldn’t imagine what would happen if Amanda saw it, if it soaked through his jacket. Her mouth would open like it did when he exited the motel room, but it would be a much hastier change to anger than back then. She’d be appalled he didn’t tell her about it. He would have to explain to the whole squad what had happened, and as a collective they were smart enough to see right through his tall tale. So, he took the alternative route, opting to lighten the stain, maybe fix the stitching (somehow) in the bathroom and pray no poor soul entered and caught him in that incredibly suspicious act. It didn’t help that the outcome of convincing things to complete strangers was exceptionally unpredictable, and with the law types around here, he doubted the odds were in his favor.

The door had a handle, thankfully, and wasn’t just a swing door like most restrooms. After the loud, audible creak of him entering, it was quiet, empty except for one man standing by the sinks. Carisi watched as he dried his hands, not making eye contact as he left. Now, alone, he moved to where the guy had been before, grabbing a few paper towels and shoving them under the faucet. As they grew limp and heavy with water, he removed his coat, throwing it onto the counter. 

“Okay, okay..” he mumbled, a mantra to keep him on task. The bright fluorescent lights in the bathroom did absolutely nothing for his migraine. He leaned awkwardly and relied on the mirror to accurately work at the stain, cringing at the sting each push produced. Over and over, the burning feeling getting worse with each touch, that fire spreading through his muscles again. The rusty red blotch wasn’t letting up.

He sighed, frustrated. It didn’t seem worth the hurt.

Tossing the crimson tinted ball of paper towels into the garbage, Carisi leaned forward, elbows on the marble counter, feeling defeated, tired, and sick. He wanted to work, he did, but he also selfishly longed to go back to bed, to hide under the blankets and never get up again.

He wanted the lights off. His head hurt so much--too much, and his body was so hot.

A thought popped into his mind, and he cursed himself for being so stupid. _Fever, possible infection,_ he recognized, bringing shaking fingers up to his forehead. He usually wasn’t a good judge of his own internal temperature, but even now he could feel the abnormal heat pressing against his damp skin, the reason why he felt so ill.

He let his hand fall back to the counter. _Without their wings, the body withers and rots._

He froze. The creak of the door rang throughout the confined space, echoing off the walls. There was a long stretch of silence, each beat of his heart resounding around the room like a gunshot.

_Say something. Do something._

“What did you do?”

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

A shuffle of footsteps, closer.

“Carisi, _what did you do?_ ”

Words barely grazed his lips. “Nothing,” he assured, useless. He was very close to him now, bending down, trying to meet his eyes. He kept his gaze on the tiled floor, his hands clutching the edge of the counter, glued in place. He couldn’t move, he knew he’d been caught, he’d been caught and everyone would know.

_I want to be seen by the police, the public, to be known by everyone._

“Blood isn’t _nothing._ ”

_Maybe you’ll be the one to get me out there, hmm?_

“Hey, look at me.”

He felt a hand wrap under his neck, removing his stare from it’s fixed point, angling it away until he was staring right into Rafael Barba’s brown eyes. They were wide and uncharacteristically uncertain, pupils dilated in the harsh lighting. Stubbornly, he felt his own eyes begin to glisten as the prosecutor’s thumb brushed over his temple. His heart fluttered like it was filled with a flock of tiny birds, and he felt some semblance of an emotion bubbling up through his chest.

“You’re burning up,” Barba observed, voice softer than usual. He let his hand drop back to his side and whatever had been thriving in Carisi’s heart fell, discouraged by the sudden lack of contact. His gaze went back to the floor without hesitation, and his back straightened, cringing at the strain. Barba moved, his fingers ghosting the outline of Carisi’s shoulders, running close to the growing stains. His voice was withheld as the lawyer took in the details, and he could almost hear Barba mentally piecing things together with relative ease.

_A sentence, a punishment._

_He could imagine him on the stand._

“You’re coming with me.”

Carisi’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m fine, counselor,” he managed to voice, eyes betraying his words.

The attorney sighed and moved away, leaving Carisi to watch his polished shoes make their way toward the door. With a certain conflicted hurt sitting idle in his heart, he was sure Barba was going to leave him, but instead he stopped by the exit, staring at Carisi.

“Come on, this isn’t negotiable,” the emotion in his tone was hard to decipher, to put a specific label on. “Please, Carisi, I’m taking you to a hospital.”

The delicate whisper of _please_ was greatly overshadowed by _hospital._ Everything Carisi had been working for was seconds away from being ruined; if he was brought to a hospital, it would never be the same. No one would look at him the same. And he would get what he wanted.

His fevered mind took that statement as a threat. He couldn’t help the agitation rising into his throat, feeling like an animal, backed into a corner. He reached for his coat and roughly tugged it on, now ignoring the burning of his wounds as he walked forward, roughly passed Barba. He strode into the halls of the courthouse, soothed by the mixed chatter of the busy place. He quickened his stride, making a beeline for the doors. The comforting barrage of noise was just as potent as the inside, but different; the loud swarm of conversation morphed to the sounds of the city, the hum of cars and hiss of the wind. He hopped down the steps, aiming to drive back to the station, catch up on the case and make it home in one piece. But then, he heard the quick patter of _footsteps creeping closer. At the sight,_ he turned, lashed out, seeing red, before immediately backing down. He brought his fist back to his side and in a flash, the scene of the dimly lit parking lot was gone. The face of his attacker melted away. 

_“Oh my god, Rafael!”_

He heard Liv’s shout from the doors. The lawyer brought his hands up to cover his face, a swear on his lips. Carisi gaped, feeling eyes on him from all directions; oh god. He’d just hit their ADA. He just--just _hurt_ him.

There was blood running from Rafael’s nose.

Carisi turned, his heart frozen in his chest. He felt like he was falling, helpless to reach out and stop himself. There was no air in his lungs, even as he turned tail and ran, the image of Barba’s face contorted in pain stuck in his head, repeating over and over like a broken record. His feet led him away from the noise and into safety, around the street corner and into his car.

“How fucking stupid am I..” he murmured to himself as he started the ignition, hands shaking, knuckles pained from the impact of flesh on bone. His fingers fumbled with the keys. He needed to go over what’d just happened; everything was going too fast, he was going to lose track and fall behind if he didn’t do something. That wasn’t- wasn’t him. Just Barba. He just- He just saw..

_His hair was short, colored blonde, fitting his hazel eyes well. He looked like a run of the mill country boy, stubble lining his jaw, face tough and worn. He wore a loose gray t-shirt and tattered blue jeans, a thick brown belt secured tightly around his waist. He was well built and handsome, chatting up a storm with his buddies, a smile on his face. Sitting, nursing his drink with Rollins to his left, Carisi noted the charm the man’s aura swelled with, and found himself, although thoroughly buzzed, enamored. He watched for a few moments before his partner spoke again, and his attention was pulled away, forgetting about the charming man at the edge of the bar. Forgetting until that handsome face, now contorted with malicious enjoyment, was hovering above him, checkered shoes pressing hard on his chest. Each time he managed to rise to the surface of the water, fighting for oxygen, the man would push him back under, back into the icy depths where the pressure grew in his ears and lake forced its way into his lungs. Then, he had come to terms with the fact that he was going to die, murdered by a monster who got off on watching him drown._

Now he was driving down a Manhattan streetway, alive but sensationless, having just assaulted an ADA in front of a crowd of bystanders, including his own boss. He was very much alive, but Liv wouldn’t just call it a simple mistake and forgive him after he hurt one of her long time friends. He was going to serve time for assault, or at the least lose his job. Barba would press charges because why wouldn’t he? Dominick Carisi was crazy. _Dominick Carisi is delusional and hysterical, and I don’t believe he’s remotely fit for detective work, let alone any career in law enforcement-_

A car screamed to his left. His hands tightened on the wheel as metal struck metal and his head slammed into the windshield, and-

His surroundings were white, blinding. After a moment, the flash of color dripped away. He was sitting in a very familiar office, with someone buttoning up his shirt. He probably flinched a little too much for the situation, grabbing the other’s wrists and pushing away.

“What?”

Carisi stayed still, holding Barba’s wrists, staring forward.

“I, um, blacked out. I just- why are we in your office?”

A scoff, and the prosecutor pulled away, returning to his full height. “You refuse to go to the hospital, so I brought you here. I-”

_Barba returned to the detective with a passive expression, before he motioned to Carisi’s torso. “Not yet, Carisi. You have to take it off.”_

_“Take it off?” he repeated, his words slurred, like when he was first dragged across the parking lot, begging to be let go. Back when he was clothed, unaware of what was to come. “Take off my- my shirt?”_

_Barba nodded, and through the haze, he could’ve sworn he saw some kind of concern in his brown eyes._

_“Why?”_

_Another sigh, but not like before, not exasperated like when they’d had a run in at the precinct. Frustrated, but not annoyed. “You obviously aren’t remotely willing to share what’s happened or tell the cause of your injuries, and at this point I very much doubt you’d ever go out and admit yourself to a hospital, even in your current state,” he explained dutifully, motioning to Carisi as a whole. “As of now, I’d think it reasonable to make sure whatever is going on is safe and adequately healthy. I’ll have you know that I can perform basic first aid; as in cleaning those lacerations, making sure they’re not-”_

_“Infected,” Carisi finished, unable to wash away his own stupid embarrassment. “I’m pretty sure they already are. Why else would I be like this?”_

“No,” Carisi blinked, the memories returning to him as if he hadn’t just lived a different future minutes before. “I- I got it.” 

_Barba’s gaze brushed over the dappled bruising laid across the detective’s chest, unsurprisingly disturbed by the sight. Carisi himself hadn’t checked that area since he’d woken in the hotel room, but now it was apparent it had progressed, turning uglier and marred. Much like the skin on his wrist, the previously reddish brown irritation had declined into a dark purpley barrage of harsh color, like a garden of saturated poppies blooming beneath his flesh._

_Carisi sat forward, bunching up the shirt in his lap._

_“I don’t know much, but I’ve been told you had a brawl with someone while in West Virginia,” Barba began as he approached the detective, unsure. “That’s a lie, isn’t it? I mean, what kind of fistfight results in gashes like those?” As if to push the point, he reached over and ran his finger loosely around the edge of Carisi’s shoulder blade, careful to avoid the inflamed, sensitive flesh._

_“Talked to Rollins, huh?” Sonny muttered distastefully, staring at the red stains in the fabric underneath him. “And yeah, I uh, wasn’t exactly truthful.”_

_“So, you lied to her about the fight?”_

_He pondered over the bizzarity of the situation. He’d been dragged to their ADA’s office, and was now being interrogated on the floor, not to even factor in the fact that he was shirtless.._

_Carisi nodded, swallowing. “Sure,” he mumbled, feeling, metaphorically this time, that he’d been stabbed in the back. “Damn, I really thought Rollins could keep a secret.”_

_Barba paused in his inspection, taken aback by his statement. “Actually, I got my information second handedly. Distinctly not from Rollins.”_

_“Fuckin’ great.”_

He finished buttoning up his shirt, a certain shake to his fingers.

“Well then, okay,” the attorney murmured with uncertainty, watching as Carisi went. “Are you going to answer my question?”

_“Sure,” he repeated, voice tight. “But it’s not a big deal.”_

_“It isn’t?” Barba questioned, kneeling behind the detective. Fingers met his back and he resisted a shiver, knowing that no matter the circumstances, Barba was only helping. Even if they sat in this tense silence for hours. However long it took for him to leave, stitched up and healthier than when he walked in._

_The cold press of the damp paper towel scared him more than anything. It stung fucking horribly and he barely managed to withhold a gasp, hands squeezing the fabric in his lap in an effort to not make any significant noise._

_“They’re deep,” the prosecutor murmured, troubled. He pressed again, gentle and delicate, moving along the curve of the gash. “I know you’re reluctant, but please, can you tell me who did this?”_

“No, I can’t,” he admitted quietly, pushing himself off the ground and onto his feet. Barba watched with a held back glare. “Thank you, really, but I’m probably needed back at the precinct. We have a new case, one you’ll probably be seeing soon anyways.”

“If you don’t want to tell me, just say it,” He started, a frown in his voice. “It’s your privacy, Carisi. I’m not going to pry any harder if you don’t want me to. I just want to make sure that whatever might be going on doesn't get out of hand.”

“Yeah, I just.. It’s not important. A stupid mistake,” the detective replied, shrugging on his jacket. His back was still sore, but in a different, better way. “But Barba, really, thank you. I don’t understand why you’d ever do this for me, of all people.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been asking myself this whole time,” the prosecutor joked kindly, and the mood immediately lifted in a way Carisi couldn’t even begin to describe. He couldn’t put into words how warm it made him feel to see Barba smile like that, to hear him talk lightly, shedding the sarcastic and analytical tone of voice for something sweeter. Not that hearing the attorney take down an opponent with swiftly crafted, eloquent words wasn’t rewarding in of itself as well. 

Feeling his face grow hot, he tucked his hand into his pocket and shrugged his shoulders. “Thanks, counselor,” he repeated, unable to force out any different words in fear of saying something explicit. “Really. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

The prosecutor nodded. “My pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "not to be risky but carisi kinda looks like a homosexual in that shirt" - my sister's girlfriend, 2019


	3. A Car, A Torch, A Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amanda's case develops in the worst way imaginable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's almost my birthday. I guess this is a sort of reverse birthday present from me to you all, and a slap in the face to all the problems that convinced me I wouldn't make it to fifteen years old.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

Walking into the room, Carisi was surprised to see the board already covered in material. He’d seen Amanda and Fin beginning to put it together late the day before, but he’d left before he could see it finished. He put his hand in his pocket and looked toward his fellow detective, who stood frustrated in front of it, the dry erase marker uncapped and set idly on the bottom of her lip. She was so invested in what she was doing that she didn’t even notice Carisi’s arrival until he elected to speak.

“So what we got already?” he asked, startling the blonde out of her focused state. She turned toward her partner, looking frazzled, before motioning at the words written neatly across the board. He resisted a smile at this welcome return to normal. Maybe now he’d finally move passed what happened, and keep those events buried deep inside of his subconscious, unneeded and forgotten. He was eager to continue life as it had always been.

“Typical amount of evidence, nothing really substantial,” she responded somewhat boredly, urging Carisi’s eyes to go over their current evidence. “Though, I don’t know, there’s definitely something weird going on here.”

“Why’s that?” Carisi responded, his eyes traveling from Amanda’s face to the pictures she already had taped up. The main centered image was a portrait of a woman with auburn hair cut to her shoulders, red lips upturned in a smile, eyes sparkling green. Her name was above the photo in blue script: Abigail Turner. To the side with a line connecting both of them, came a portrait of a new man, the one he’d seen before the court hearing, dubbed Connor Turner. He assumed Abigail was the sister he was talking about, especially as his gaze fell to the more graphic snapshots of the woman’s injuries.

“Ms. Turner eventually said yes to care, but she definitely didn’t want to,” Rollins remarked, pointing the marker at Carisi, stalking over to his side to view her work as a whole. “The brother basically had to drag her in. It was even harder to get her to talk about the assault, but after awhile she finally told us a few details.”

Sonny nodded in understanding. “What’s so weird about that?” he asked, looking at the purple bruises on her ribs, her black eye and long cut across the bridge of her nose. “Seems like typical behavior for someone in an abusive situation.”

“No no, that’s the thing,” the detective remarked, her voice heightening as she moved to make her point. “It wasn’t like that at all. She didn’t blame herself or anything, and in fact, the only real thing she said to explain it is that her attacker _wanted_ to be caught.” The moment the words registered in his mind, his gaze fell on the last photo, nearest the bottom. To the one of Abigail Turner’s back, shirt was lifted up to the two long lacerations tracing her shoulder blades.

It was like a gunshot went off, sending him immediately into autopilot.

“Did she recite what happened?” His voice sounded uncharacteristically not him. He tucked his hands in his pockets to keep them steady, unable to tear his eyes away from the picture in front of him.

“Yes, actually, after a good while of Liv going at her. Perp drugged her at a coworker’s birthday party at a bar in Manhattan, said he was going to take her home, but instead drove her to some empty parking garage and raped her in the backseat of the car. She was highly intoxicated along with some sort of drug.” She motioned to a paper sitting on the tabletop, printed information of the drug. He managed to step forward, freeing his gaze, but the photo still remained clear in his head. He skimmed through the varied information, a deep sense of foreboding eating through his already deteriorating calm.

_Rohypnol._ The most common.

_GHB._ A little more scarce than the others.

_Keta-_

_Ketamine?_

His eyes skimmed the paper with a dreadful intensity. _Ketamine is primarily sold throughout the world under the brand name Ketalar. It is also marketed under a variety of other brand names, including Calypsol, Vetalar, and-_

“Ketaset.”

The blue lettering flashed in his mind like a slap to the face. He straightened his back and closed his eyes. He must’ve been dreaming. This was just another silly daydream. He had never left home, and was still lying in bed, sleeping passed his already late alarm. The Turner case had been an easy case that they prosecuted in a week, not this shitshow.

But nothing changed when he opened his eyes. Amanda, focused on reciting information, did not notice his turmoil. “Afterward, she was taken to the harbor - tossed in, to put it lightly - but not before he assaulted her again. After what Abigail said was at least five minutes in the water, he pulled her out and took her back to the car, where he gave her those two lacerations on the upper back,” she tapped the marker on the photo, setting her hand on her hip and redirecting herself toward Carisi. “Now here’s where it gets really bizarre. Apparently this guy claimed that action was, from Abigail’s own words, “taking the freedom to fly away”. And then, after that, he told her he was getting “impatient with the police”. That he thought we’d get him by now. Seems like we’re dealing with another crazy.”

“Oh,” Carisi uttered, his voice detached, ears ringing indistinctly. “Is she- is the victim here?”

Rollins shook her head and pointed in the general direction of the exit, tucking the marker in her pocket. “She’s still at the hospital, but the brother’s here. You could talk to him, if you’d like, but be careful. He’s a hot mess.”

Carisi’s eyes swept over the precinct, quickly spotting a redhead amidst the blue-grey tones of the station. The man was sitting slouched over, hand on his neck, face passively tense, expression strung haphazardly together. He inwardly winced with sympathy.

Nodding in silent confirmation to his partner, he grabbed a case folder and walked toward the young man, anything to get away from the pictures stuck on the board and the reality of what had happened. At least his feelings were rational this time--anyone would freak out if they realized the person that drugged and raped them in another place had followed them home. He latched onto that realistic view, reassuring himself that his heightened reaction was normal. He knew, really, recusing himself was an option, but he also knew that he definitely could not. If he did, it would generate reasonable suspicion, and even before that he’d have to disclose his reasoning to his Lieutenant, something he was very adamant about never ever doing. He never wanted to be the cause of her sad eyes. 

So, instead, he continued as normal. He came to a stop beside Connor Turner and and saw the young man’s eyes were already on him, curiosity swirling in his gaze. But he wisely kept his mouth shut, deciding that you really shouldn’t ask a cop you barely know why he’s all beat up. That would make a very bad first impression.

“Hi, Detective Carisi,” he greeted firmly, taking a deep breath to prepare himself for what was to come. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your sister.” He put on an inviting smile and motioned toward the interrogation rooms, to which Connor understood immediately. As Carisi led him to Interrogation B, the man spoke up nervously, his voice tired and high.

“My dad was a police officer,” he said, quiet. “A sex cop, like you, sir.”

“Oh, where?” Carisi queried, falling happily into this simple small talk.

“Um, Brooklyn, 1998, he was a Sergeant. He taught us - me and my sister, Abigail, that is - everything about this stuff. What to do or not to do, to be safe,” he fiddled with his fingers while Carisi opened the door to Interrogation B, taking the man inside and motioning to the chair with its back to the window. The familiar, fairly simple design of the room began to calm his nerves as he positioned himself across from Connor, setting the files he’d been carrying on the desk lightly. Connor sighed and shook his head, keeping his eyes leveled to his reflection beneath him. “Not like any of that helped at all in the end, did it?”

Sensing building tension, Sonny moved to sit, letting a breath escape his mouth as he rolled up his sleeves. “How did it end, Connor?” he asked, seeing the man’s focus flicker to his wrist instead of the question, caught on the sight of the reddened bruises decorating his tight flesh. A trickle of embarrassment wriggled through his skin, knowing that yeah, it would’ve probably been better if he kept his arms hidden. Connor’s lips parted but Carisi continued before he could get a statement out. “I’m aware that you found your sister in a critical state this morning, could you recount that please?”

Distracted, Connor nodded, focusing back on the subject at hand. “Okay, yeah, I can do that.. well, I found her in the living room, laying there, on the couch. Just lying there. I’d just gotten home from my girlfriend’s house, we had a date and I stayed the night.”

“What time exactly did you find Abigail?”

“Around 6:30 am? I had to work so it was early,” he paused, his hand coming to rest on his neck. “Abby was bleeding. All over. She acted drunk or- or drugged. Her clothes were wet and ripped and she wouldn’t say anything helpful to me. So I did my best to help her up and try to get her to talk to me. She would only ask me to not tell anyone. Over and over, _please don’t tell anyone, Connor, you can’t tell anyone.._ ”

“But you decided to anyways?”

“Yes, yeah, I came here. I could tell she was, um, r-raped. She was bleeding bad down her legs and she couldn’t walk,” an uncomfortable silence ran through the stale air, blurry memories still a safe distance away. “I came in at exactly 6:53. I know, I checked my watch before I walked in. I left Abby at home ‘cause I knew I couldn’t make her come with me, and I dunno if that would’ve been safe, even. She was really hurt.”

“Did she say anything other than ‘please don’t tell anyone’? Anything at all?”

_Amanda. Please, she doesn’t need to know. No one does._

“She, um,” he chuckled, wiping his watery eyes before shaking his head and tucking his hands between his legs. “She apologized for ruining the couch. Like that was what I was worried about then, r-right? Not that she had been assaulted, bruised, cut up.” At his own words, his gaze lit up in recognition. “Oh, no, she also said something when I found those - it sounds crazy, but really - but she said that it was like losing her virginity again, but this time her, um, her _w-wings._ ” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “She only had one of her earings on. She always wears them, they’re little golden feathers. I thought she meant that, cause she was only wearing one, but I’m not sure. I mean, they’re feathers, not wings.”

 

Carisi nodded. A lump had formed in his throat and his chest was tight. He _felt_ that. He _knew_ what that was, though he’d never had words to put it to before. His wings were taken. His _freedom_ to fly freely. Or, in not so insane terms, his freedom to live unbothered.

_Your kind doesn’t notice the stolen wings, so the birds, they all fall away._

“Fall away,” Carisi uttered, eyes caught on the light streaming through the cloudy window, the sun sinking behind the many buildings. 

“What was that, sir?”

Connor Turner’s nervous face now blocked the sun and Carisi blinked the water out of his eyes, ducking his head. He sighed and pulled his sleeves back down, feeling a tinge too nervous to go out like that anymore. He grabbed the manilla folder and pushed himself onto his feet, making eye contact with the figgety man in front of him. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Turner, but I think we have enough information for now.” He motioned toward the door. “You should go see your sister.”

“Yes, that’s smart. Thank you, too,” the redhead blurted and exited swiftly, not waiting for the detective to escort him out. Carisi watched with tired eyes. It would be fine. He seemed to know his way around a precinct, whatever that meant.

He sat back down in the chair, rubbing a thumb across the smooth chalky paper of the folder that he barely even remembered grabbing. After a moment of deliberation he opened it, reading _Abigail Turner_ written across the label in Amanda’s distinct scrawl. Inside, small photos spilled out. Carisi sighed when he was forced to confront the pictures again. Now closer to them, he funnily enough recognized the bedsheets of Mercy Hospital, hidden behind Abby Turner’s bare back, the two J shaped cuts stark against her pale skin. His own two lacerations, the self-proclaimed clipping of his wings, returned their aching when faced with this image. He could only be thankful that their DA had helped him, no matter what that meant in the long run, and that he would most likely not blab unless it was effecting the detective’s work ethic. Which it was. He wouldn’t let anyone notice that, though.

He placed his hand on the photo and immediately after, a realization like a bottle rocket exploded in his head. His eyes slowly widened and he let out a breath akin to a gasp, alarms flashing in his mind like deafening fireworks. _Barba would get the details of the case._ Barba wasn’t a fucking idiot and he would connect the dots before anything could be done to convince him otherwise. He would know and he would alert everyone. He’d be expected to recuse himself from the case and tell another detective, probably Amanda, what had happened. Everyone in the station would know. His attacker would be happy. Would laugh at his shame. In a panic he racked his brain for a solution, a way to get around this problem, but he knew there wasn’t a way to prolong this inevitable outcome. There was no solution. Barba knew and there wasn’t any way for him to unknow it, no way to erase that unique detail from the case files, no way to scrub it clean. He was so fruitlessly trapped, and suddenly the familiar, soothing room felt much smaller, like an anaerobic cage with a viewing window too strong to break through. He stood, forgetting about the images spilled across the table, choosing instead to escape through the door he’d forgotten was there, the silence of the interrogation room remorselessly gone, filled with noises and sounds he should’ve been finding solace in but instead found jarring and overbearing. He walked in a quick, calculated pace, arriving in the corridor leading to the exit. He stood for a few seconds as he was forced to recall his earlier hallucination; the courthouse, Barba’s bloodied face, the screech of tires against asphalt and the crash of metal on metal as another car rammed into his. The permanent empty blackness of his world after the impact was scarily inviting but this time he chose otherwise, whipping around another corner and ducking into a single bathroom, locking the door and feeling his heart start to pound.

Sonny didn’t think he’d ever had a real panic attack before. He’d always been a little antsy about things but he managed it with a smile, never truly falling far enough to tip over the edge. He’d been dangerously close the night he’d gotten home, but now it was worse, oppressive, lungs constricted, much more so than ever before. It was like someone was standing on his chest, stomping repeatedly down, harder and harder. Water welled in his eyes and he slid to the floor, limbs shivering, the lump in his throat growing heavier and heavier until he couldn’t hold it in anymore and a torn sob ripped from someplace deep in his chest. He buried his face into his knees and with shaking hands tried to wipe his face, but the dam was broken and the damage couldn’t be reversed, not now. He covered his mouth with his arms and stared, terrified, at the tiled floor in which he was sitting on, quelling the volume of his voice, cursing himself for being stupid enough to let anyone see the most identifying injury of his entire body, not even to mention letting them help him. Because now tampering with evidence seemed like a great choice to make and he didn’t want to know what that told about his mental state. 

Instead of succumbing to those intrusive urges, he searched his memory for the things his mother used to tell him when he was young to get him to calm down in stressful situations. In the back of his racing mind he managed to find something, latching onto that childish information as his last support. 

_Count the colors in the room. Name them._

There were three distinct shades present in the background. The bathroom lights were dull and white, bouncing off the greenish walls in a pale robin’s egg blue array, casting on his face like the light had been colored in the first place. The tiles crawling up half the side of the wall and covering the floor were the color of the caribbean sea, a soft teal. Off-white specks decorated only a select few of the squares, seeming to be placed without any rhyme or reason. The utilities were both the same simple ivory, the slight tint of yellow somewhat jarring compared to the other hues, but fitting in others. Closer, there was the black of his shoes, the shine of the blue light against their polished surface, only slightly hidden beneath the dark gray legs of his pants. His sleeves were tan, the warm tone overtaken and thusly changed by the cool shades of the room.

He buried his face into those sleeves, blinding himself, relying on the image he’d surveyed through the blur. He started counting. 

_White, green, blue, ivory, teal. Black, gray, and tan._

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight._

He took eight breaths. _In_ before the number fell from his lips, _out_ as it drifted away.

_In, one, out. In, two, out. In, three, out. In, four, out. In, five, out. In, six, out. In, seven, out, and finally, in, eight, out._

He repeated. _In, eight, out._ Oxygen began to slowly fill his chest, breaths returning to a normal, steady rhythm. His hands still shook, albeit minutely, the small shiver of his limbs falling to a tolerable level. He breathed like he had never breathed before, thankful, relieved, taking what he could get in vague fear of anything like this happening again. As he forced his legs to straighten, and pushed himself onto his feet, he felt somewhat dizzy, like this was a dream. His chest tightened but not in the way it had before; instead, it tightened in realization. This was a dream, wasn’t it? 

Yet, as he stood there with his eyes angled downward to the teal tiling with ivory specks, he didn’t wake up in their attorney’s arms. The distant bustling of the station called to him from behind the bathroom door and drips of water dropped from the faucet in front of him, keeping him in. His heart sank and a quiet sigh befell his lips. Yes, he was dumb to think this was the fantasy. 

_But the car felt so real too, didn’t it?_ He thought, stubbornly. _No, in the moment it was convincing, but now I see that it all the details were undefined, like a bad painting._ Everything _here_ was clear. It couldn’t be another figment of his imagination. This was reality and he would just have to accept it.

That fucking bastard followed him to New York. He had his badge, saw the label, Manhattan SVU; of course he’d come into their jurisdiction just to fuck with him. To hurt other innocent people right where he could see it. Or, he was here to take him again. The thought was admittingly disturbing, settling in his chest as a vague fear over his heart. Though, it was a better thought than the alternative-- if all he wanted was Carisi, than he could have him. If it meant no more people would have to go through what he went through, he’d give himself up without hesitation. 

He flexed his fists and looked up in the mirror, commonly unsure of his appearance. His eyes were rimmed with red and his hair was offset, expression exasperated, disconsolate. The remnants of the worst night of his life were still present, albeit fading, the bruises less black and blue and more brown and yellow, beginning to blend in with the color of his skin. The cut in his lip was a dark pink, having lost its saturated hue, no longer a black line of clotted blood. He shook his head in dismay and ran his hands over his face, before finally turning around and opening the door, the noises of the workplace flooding his ears. He stepped out and shut it behind him, letting a final deep breath exit his mouth as he released the doorknob from his grip. What had just happened had not been fictional, but this-- this was the real world. This was truly reality. Reality was the photos on the board and Amanda’s blissful lack of knowledge of the whole situation. Reality was a man destroying a woman’s life because of him. 

_He’s a serial, and you know it. It’s not going to end with Abigail Turner._

That was a hard truth to get. Carisi had the fundamental knowledge that he wasn’t the first, nor the last of this guy’s targets. He had spoke highly of his body count, which was concerning at the time and still concerning now, especially since there was solid proof of him continuing his business in New York. 

He made his way slowly back to where Amanda had been standing, a subtle frown on his face at the thought of serial rapes being called “a business”; however, when he arrived there, Amanda was nowhere to be seen, the marker she had clung to so vigorously sitting idle on the table. Papers were scattered haphazardly across the wooden expanse. He blinked, uncertain, glancing back to her desk -- no, not there either. In fact, he couldn’t spot any other members of the squad. Amanda’s desk was empty, so was Fin’s, and Liv’s door and blinds were shut. 

Must’ve gotten a call. Great. Sometimes he wished crime would just wait.

With a sigh, he walked over to the table, aiming to clean up the mess that someone - probably Amanda - had made. He gathered them up in his hands, softly bumping them against the tabletop to straighten the stack; then, his eyes caught onto a few words, and his heart once again leapt into his throat. 

_Location: West Virginia._

He dropped the pile like it had burned him, letting them fall back to their original position without any attempt to catch them. His breathing had once again begun to speed up, and his hands shook. He turned his back to the papers and crossed his arms, staring at the ground, mind drawing a blank.

He jumped as a loud noise reverberated throughout the walls, pivoting on his feet to face the opening out into the bullpen. Gratefully ignoring what he’d just seen, he came up to the corner to peek out and see what was going on. And, at the sight, a part of him deep down inside faltered. Barba was storming away from Liv’s office, straight toward him, definitely a little pissed, but mostly frustrated. As he noticed Carisi, however, his hardened expression faltered. He now purposefully approached the detective, stalking passed him and hiding behind the corner, a soft look on his face. Carisi followed apprehensively, pretty confused, making a conscious effort to move his body so the pictures on the board weren’t visible in Barba’s immediate line of sight.

“Carisi,” Barba stated, voice held tight as their stares met.

Sonny tucked his hand into his pocket, shifting his weight onto his left leg. “You alright there, counselor?” he spoke, latching onto this welcome change of scenery, willfully forgetting about the files on the table. Despite the tense atmosphere, any time with Barba really made him feel better. 

“Are _you_ alright?” Rafael asked, passing off the question, tone still managing to be sincere. 

Forcing a hopefully nonchalant smile, he nodded. “Of course. Everything’s going fine.” A hilariously bullshit lie, but he wasn’t gonna make Barba worry. Whatever he and Liv were obviously bickering about, he didn’t need to add onto that stress.

“Everything else?” He murmured sharply, lowering his voice, dulling it down to a whisper in a kind attempt to keep the detective’s business private.

A pleasant tremble ran through Carisi’s body at the visible concern. “It’s uh, doing great,” he responded sweetly, the smile not so forced anymore, the warmth spreading from his abdomen to his chest, snaking up all the way to his face. Everything was fine, concerning his immediate health issues. He had bigger problems than stupid physical pains. “All thanks to you, right?”

Barba chuckled, and that warmth grew, multiplying and blossoming until he could feel it coloring his face in that way it would get around Amanda, but worse, or better in a sense. Much, much more overpowering. “I just- just want to know if you’re truly okay,” the attorney admitted hesitantly, for once forgetting the assertive eye contact and silver tongue that characterized Rafael Barba as a proficient and formidable lawyer. “Not just physicalities. Liv’s worried about you and she doesn’t even know the worst of it.”

_None of you know the worst of it._

Biting his tongue in exchange for pleasantries, Carisi shook his head, letting out a useless exhale. “I appreciate the worry, I really do,” he murmured, stepping a few inches to the side so he could lean his right shoulder against the wall, only allowing his eyes to linger on Rafael for a few seconds at a time. “But-”

“No buts,” Barba retorted, cutting the detective off. “I’ve been meaning to ask; are you doing anything tonight?”

Shocked, Sonny opened his mouth to respond, but at that wonderful, opportune moment, Amanda walked in carrying a tray of coffees, her cheeks tinged red from the outside chill. Almost immediately, the blonde’s eyes centered in on her two coworkers huddled in the corner, blue gaze intrigued as she set the drinks down.

“What’s going on here, then?” she asked playfully, the corners of her lips flicking upward like they always did when she zeroed in on an opportunity to tease.

“Oh, nothing,” Barba replied carelessly. Carisi glanced down, only to be met with Rafael’s brown eyes, filled with something happy and soft and just so overwhelmingly beautiful he could feel himself settle down on that terrifying edge with his legs dangling, momentarily blinded from the fear of the drop.

“I’m free all week,” he answered almost breathlessly, hoping Amanda’s arrival wouldn’t deter this specific subject of conversation. He desperately wanted to see where it went.

Barba smiled and wordlessly handed Carisi a carefully cut piece of paper; not exactly a business card but something similar. The detective elected to not gawk over what it said with his inquisitive blonde friend in the room, instead putting it in his pocket, a shade of pink spreading happily across his face as Barba gave him an actual real smile.

“Nice seeing you, Detective Rollins,” the attorney acknowledged as he moved to leave the room, leaving Carisi a mess of warm, euphoric feelings, standing dumbly in the corner.

Instead of seeing his bundle of feelings, Amanda snickered, plucking one of the cups from the tray and bringing it to her lips. “What was that about?” she quipped with a smirk, amused at her partner’s antics. “Trouble in paradise?”

“What? No, it was just- quite the opposite, actually,” he denied hastily, crossing his arms with his back against the wall. Regrettably, he noted that that felt fairly bad, and adjusted his stance accordingly.

Rollins cocked her head innocently, oblivious to his plight. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, before an idea popped up like a firecracker. “We were just talking about law things.” 

“Law things, huh? That’s your excuse every time,” she mocked, friendly, before she shook her head, setting the coffee she’d been grasping back down on the edge of the table. “Anyways, I think this case is a little more important than gossiping over your love life. Did you get anything new from Connor Turner?”

 _Love life_ rang in his head but he managed to begrudgingly think back to his time in the interrogation room. “I think so. Did she say anything to you about wings?”

Amanda raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “No,” she replied, tone curious. “Why?”

“When Connor found her, she was apparently going on about losing her wings, and how the man that did this to her had taken them.” he explained, holding onto his earlier feelings like his life depended on it, refusing to let his brain drift back to the days before, when his own freedom was ripped from him. He knew he was sharing more information than he realistically should’ve known by Connor’s vague explanations, but he would never admit it. “It’s miniscule, but it sure sounded important.”

He knew if they caught their felon this would all be over, but also recognized that his arrest would come with all other sorts of problems he was eager to avoid.

“Yeah, yeah, that sounds very important,” she turned and plucked the marker back from the table, walking over to the board. “What kinda sicko is this guy?”

The comment instilled genuine exhilaration in him, a laugh falling gracelessly from his mouth. 

A real sicko he was. 

 

 

Mercy was, for once, quiet. 

The usual hustle and bustle of the hospital was lulled to a minimum, the voiceless environment broken only by the small chatter of the desk lady on the phone sitting behind the check in desk. It was peaceful, in a sense, until the woman hung up the phone and called out a name, shocking Sonny Carisi from the noiseless environment he had clung to. 

He stood, feeling like eyes were on him, and for once his fears were probably justified. Eyes were most likely on him. He had certainly made some sort of scene, saying he was here to talk to a victim, but without his badge they couldn’t let him in. He’d almost forgotten his badge had been stolen and the sudden awareness had made him anxious. He all but begged the secretary to call his precinct and talk with his Lieutenant to assure that he was actually a detective and not just some weird guy (or, as Amanda put it, a sicko) who wanted to see a recovering rape victim. 

“Detective Dominick Carisi,” the receptionist chirped, her colorful eyes cutely narrowed in the way all receptionists narrow their eyes. “Sorry for the trouble, but you understand, don’t you?”

“Yeah, you can’t just let random people in without identification. It was no trouble at all,” he relented, repeating the rehearsed lines in his head. “I’m sure I’ll be getting an earful from my Lieutenant in the morning, right?”

The desk lady blushed and giggled, before another woman entered and smiled at him, wordlessly handing him an ivory folder, Ms. Turner’s name visible on the paper. “Room 151. She’s supposed to be sleeping, but I’ve been informed she’s been up for quite some time. I’ll lead you,” she informed politely, motioning toward the hallway adjacent. He offered a goodbye smile to the receptionist and she waved back, before he gratefully left the waiting room at the nurse’s heels. Despite the charm of the woman at the desk, he really didn’t want to stand in a practically silent area talking about how he was the most dimwitted and unprepared cop out there. Like he’d said, he’d get a lecture from Liv in the morning, if not sooner, if he decided to check back at the station before he was done for the night. Which, of course, he would; he needed to drop off any information he received at his desk so he wouldn’t forget it. She’d have to order him another one, which would be a headache in of itself.

_She must be so fed up with me._

Despite the higher numbering of the room, it only took about thirty seconds or so of fast-paced walking to reach their destination. Instead of a drawn curtain surrounding a single bed amongst others in a corridor-like area, Abigail Turner had been granted a whole room. Next to the door marked with the number 151, there was a large viewing window, the size similar to the one-way glass in the interrogation room back at the precinct. Despite this, Mercy’s trademark curtains nevertheless concealed what was inside, presenting a facade of false privacy to trick the patient into thinking they are ever truly alone. He’d never really liked hospitals. The idea of being stuck in one was an unpleasant thought, especially now with all the recent happenings. He liked to be in control of any given situation regarding his health. If he came down with the flu, he would rather work through the sickness than schedule a visit to allow him to get days off. Besides, he didn’t want days off. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself home alone for days on end. 

The only time he could stand hospitals were when he was here _for_ work. Like now, as the nurse whose name-tag read _Diana Mills, RN_ slipped her keycard into the door and pushed it gently open, the cold air of their most recent victim’s room spilling into the hallway. He didn’t _like_ the bitter antiseptic smell or the bright white walls of the place, but he was happy to deal with it for the sake of, this time, Abigail Turner.

When he walked in, the lights, previously dimmed, were brought back to their full power by Nurse Mills close behind him. He turned to thank her, but by the time he looked over his shoulder, the door was pressed shut and he was left in a new, different silence.

He turned his head. When he did, his gaze was immediately met the harsh, grating green eyes of the woman he’d seen in the photos taped to the board. Freckles spilled across her sharp nose and cascaded down her hollow, pale cheeks, creeping in at her hairline and at the bottom of her chin. Her lips were red and grim, and as previously noted, her eyes were vibrant, icy blades. She regarded him with about as little respect as one would to a creepy man at the club, rubbing a hand through her fiery red hair, messy and tapering off at her breasts. She looked almost nothing like her brother, save for the pale skin and sharp noses. Her aura was completely different-- assertive, dominant, reeking of some sort of authority. Her brother had been instead like a frightened mouse, not the proud lioness that laid before him.

“What is it now?” she grumbled, her voice unlike what Carisi had been expecting. Instead of the sharp-tongue he’d pegged her as, he was met with a tired, gruff tone that sounded more fatigued than confident. Like the lion’s bravery had betrayed it, falling to die in the dust.

“My name is Detective Carisi, with the Manhattan Special Victims Unit,” he addressed. “I’m here to take your statement, if that’s alright.” The woman’s eyes were scathing and feisty, like Barba’s, but lacking all that collected level-headed control that kept him filtered when we wanted to be. Consequently, Carisi shrunk explicitly under her gaze, the air generating some sort of tense apprehension, as if this exhausted feline could snap at any moment. That’s when he noticed how one of her arms was cuffed to the bed, and he realized his fears, like in the waiting room, were very much justified. 

God, he really did hate hospitals.

“Caught you staring, huh, officer?” Abigail retorted, and his eyes jumped from the cuffs back to her standoffish stare. She smirked in a not so serious way and tugged on her wrist, the smooth metal bars shifting at the pull. “I changed my mind and tried to get out. I guess there’s no take-backs once you’ve said yes.” Like a punch to the gut, he shifted his weight, noticing that even Abigail seemed disturbed by the very words she had said.

_Keep cool, Carisi._

“Why is that?” He questioned, keeping his voice neutral for the moment. This woman went through almost exactly what he went through, but it seemed she was dealing with it much differently than he did. Much more aggressively, in a sense. 

“You look pretty uncomfortable yourself, sir,” she observed. “How would you feel in my position?” she pulled on the cuff for good measure, the smile turning to a dissatisfied frown.

“Trapped, I suppose,” he relented, sighing and taking a seat in one of the stiff chairs by her bed. He placed the medical records on the counter next to him and sighed, leaning forward, wondering how this was going to go. Probably like a harsh therapy session instead when he was supposed to be a cop getting a statement from a rape victim.

“See, sir, _you_ get it!” She was grinning again, straightening up so her back was leaning against the bed-frame. He noted she was being mindful of a certain place, remembering the photos of the deep red cuts etched into white, freckled flesh. “None of those old nurses did. It’s like you’re a bird in a cage, right? Isn’t that crazy, officer? And they’re not gonna let me out, not now, not ever, cause he stole the one thing I had. The one thing I had, the one thing everyone has, that _bastard_ took my freedom and had the audacity to create some batshit metaphor-”

“Wings,” he filled in, cutting off the chatter that was, to anyone else, nonsensical, but to Carisi it was nostalgic, in an absolutely fucking horrible way. “Clipped your wings, right, that’s what he said he did?”

“More or less,” she flexed her fingers and sighed, gritting her teeth. “Fucking psychopath. 

Pulling a yellow notepad from his pocket, Carisi got his pen at the ready, telling himself that this would be over in no time. “Do you have any idea what your attacker looked like? This could be anything from clothes, hair, even smell-”

“Weed,” The woman spat, her voice angry and spiteful. “Weed, whiskey, and old cigarette butts. Like he was covered in every dingey substance imaginable.”

Carisi jotted it down, along with his own specific input, his own messy handwriting an eyesore to focus on.

“He had these pretty brown eyes. Well, green maybe. Specks of gold, like some expensive agate you see in a jewelry shop,” she shook her head, clenching her eyes shut as if it hurt to try and remember. “He- he was white, and had short hair, like brown or something. Light brown. Really light brown.”

Carisi thought he’d been a handsome man, before.

“Blond?” he suggested, taking from his own memory of the events. She whipped her head towards him, her jaw locked in frustration and eyes ablaze.

“Yeah. That.” She gritted out, oddly irritated.

“Okay, okay. Anything else? What he was wearing, maybe?”

Abigail nodded, struggling to push down passed her nature aggression. “A red t shirt. Light blue jeans, the washed kind. And- and his belt- it’s, um, brown, thick, uh, with some kind of eagle, I think, on the belt buckle. A silver eagle.”

Carisi shook his head. He hadn’t seen an eagle on the belt buckle, but he wrote it down anyways.

“That’s helpful, really, but now could you recount exactly what happened? From the beginning, please. I know it’s- it’s difficult, and we don’t have to do it right now-”

“Yeah, yeah, I will,” She inhaled deeply, clenching her fists before starting her tale. “I was at a coworker’s birthday party. We had a lot to drink, all of us, but I was by far the worst.”

“You did have something slipped into one of your drinks. Ketamine, wasn’t it?”

Her nose scrunched up and her eyebrows furrowed, red hair jumping as she returned her focus on him. “No, actually, the tests haven’t come back yet. They don’t know what it was.”

He paled. “Oh, sorry, I thought I’d heard something about it. Did you see it happen? Maybe who did it, the same man?”

 

She stared at him for a second longer than normal, before shaking her head and continuing. “N-no, my friend uh, Casey, Casey Quinn, she took everyone’s order and got them for us from the bartender. I had around, um, eight shots? And a beer? I’m not sure which one did had the stuff in it, but yeah, Casey got them all.”

Carisi nodded. He wrote down the name and glanced up, not particularly needing nor wanting the rest of the description. Rollins could get the rest after Turner was discharged. For now, he’d busy himself by following another more hands-on lead: Casey Quinn.

“Do you happen to know where Casey Quinn lives?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love all the people who comment and kudos and everything.. any words from you to me make me feel so happy and gleeful. ive sat and smiled at some of your comments far longer than i should have. every single one of you are absolutely fucking amazing, never forget that


	4. Friend, Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carisi gets a call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy. oh hot damn. here comes some long overdue subpar content. sorry guys your boy disso is tired but school is almost out so! goodie

He’d gotten back late, the atmosphere of the house much like it had been when he gotten back from West Virginia. It lacked the warmth the quaint space usually held, decorated in the dull blues and blacks of night. The mornings were a blur, and now he seldom saw his home in any other light than dark. Despite the weariness that always took hold in the distant nights, even his bedroom down the hall felt unwelcoming. Maybe if the lights were on, it would seem more friendly, but his finances, already plagued by a new phone’s price-tag, couldn’t take the extra weight of a heftier power bill. Unfortunately, he was helpless to change the current air of his home.

Carisi tossed his jacket off and resisted a sigh, walking dejectedly through the hallway toward the bed he did not want to sleep in. At least he’d have something to do tomorrow, looking for Casey Quinn and possibly connecting her to the man from the bar. Maybe he could get closer to finding the serial he’d let escape. Or-

He jumped an embarrassing amount when his new phone rang in his pocket, the shrill tone loud and unfamiliar. He’d forgotten to silence it- thank god it hadn’t rung while he was talking to Abigail. He pulled it from its confines and read the caller’s name, or perhaps the lack thereof. Thinking it a scammer but yearning for a distraction, he quickly answered it, putting it on speaker and leaving it sit on the edge of the bed while he began to undress.

“Hello?” came the voice, immediately familiar and recognizable. Carisi’s hands fell from the buttons on his shirt as he stared dumbly at the device, a delightful pain in his heart. “Carisi?”

“Barba?” he uttered, voice groggier than he’d thought previously. It was sometime passed one am on a Friday night, so a call from ADA Rafael Barba wasn’t something he’d exactly expected, especially since pretty much no one but Liv and Amanda knew his new number. Though in the beginning, Amanda had only known about the origins of his injuries, and she’d spilled, so why couldn’t’ve she done it again? This time, however, Carisi found himself less annoyed at the prospect.

“I know it’s late,” Barba spoke with certainty. “But I need to talk to you.”

“About what?” Carisi responded too quickly. Barba paused, and that affectionate squeeze of his heart started to dim. Something else took hold. Dread.

“About the case.”

Struggling to find a way to derail the conversation - Barba knew too much, he was the last person he wanted to discuss “the case” with - he sat on the bed, taking the phone, thumb hovering over the hang up button. He could hear it in Barba’s voice. That soft yet accusatory tone, the voice of someone who knew something dire, the voice of someone who wanted to act. Suspicion laced every word and phrase.

“We haven’t even got any suspects yet to even begin to prosecute,” he sputtered, mind disconnected but so very invested at the same time. His tone changed, turning bitter, defensive. “We have nothing to talk about.”

Another horrible, overwhelming pause. The sounds of the city were nowhere to be found, leaving Sonny alone, sitting on his bed in a black void. No sound to be heard other than the fervent beating of his heart as he awaited his sentencing at the hands of their very own prosecutor. 

“I’ve seen the pictures, Carisi.”

Just as he’d thought. With one simplistic movement, the call was ended. The phone felt like ice in his hands. Freezing and burning his flesh, his fingertips, his skin. Running through his veins and choking him. In a second it hit against the wall with a dull thud, landing on the carpet noiselessly. There was a small mark left from the impact. He stared at the floor, idle panic festering up through his nerves, adrenaline skyrocketing with nowhere to go. He was found out, it was now set in stone. 

_The pictures._

_I’ve seen the pictures, Carisi._

_I’ve seen your dirty little secret, Dominick._

It was Abigail Turner’s pale back, ruined by swift movements pushed against bone, that caused his demise. Unique and original the marks were in their make and design. They were only a pair of clipped wings, chopped off at the stem. Birds were useless without flight. They would be killed on the ground by predators they could not taunt any longer. The sky is no place for flightless birds, and they’ll end up eaten alive, a victim of nature and the world’s hatred.

That’s what he knew.

So, he didn’t go into work that morning.

He couldn’t bare to face whoever would meet him at the door. Be it Liv, Amanda, or Barba himself. He couldn’t be seen as a victim, to be forced to recount his story. He always acted like he knew how it felt with his manipulative yet charismatic words, easing victims and suspects alike into telling the whole truth. In reality, though, he had _never_ known how it felt. Now, he did. He was living it, for fucks sake.

He called in sick, ignoring the silver finish chipping off from the corner of his phone, the dent in the wall. Thankfully, Liv displayed no signs that indicated she knew what her DA knew, instead being concerned and motherly, how she normally was around him when not acting the role of commanding Lieutenant. She said with a frown in her voice that she’d noticed how downcast he’s been the past few days. He apologized and wondered how it was that obvious. Now, hours later, he was, in all aspects, alone. He hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep and he was desperately trying to get some in, curled under his blankets, half dressed with curtains drawn. Barba on his mind. Rafael Barba, their succinct and intelligent ADA, who Carisi had spent nights with studying, who Carisi admired, despite all that had happened. A man that was so perfect in Sonny’s eyes was of course the only one who could make the connections needed to see the truth about what happened to him in West Virginia. Of course. Of _fucking_ course. It all went together like a nice little bow, a nice little bow set on top of a present made only to fuck him, Sonny Carisi, over. Everything he did just dug his grave deeper; every lie, every diversion, every mistake. There was no way to escape his fate. Except-

_The gun._

_Where?_

_In the desk._

_The gun in the desk._

Liv had gotten him a new service weapon. The handgun was in the hallway in a small writing desk he’d purchased online but never really used, the desk that wobbled if you leaned on it, probably due to his haphazard assembly of the parts. The gun, as alone as him, was hidden in the desk, yet it still taunted him, still waited. He’d put it there the night before without even thinking about it. He had just slipped it out of his belt as he walked to his room, a memorized movement he enacted for months leading up to the Parcell case, if not years. It was stashed in a place he believed no intruders would look, a good place that, if there were to be someone unwanted in his home, he could get to easily. Now, though, his hands ached and he halfheartedly wished he’d hidden it somewhere that took effort to find.

_No questions asked, no prosecution to endure, and simple, blissful peace._

It was too inviting.

He stood and it felt like seconds before he was pulling the desk’s single drawer open, handle looking like decoration among the plain wooden patterning. He only opened it enough for his hand to fit through, having learned what distance that was. It was innate. He reached in and felt the cold, unfamiliar grasp of this pistol, an updated model. He couldn’t look at it. He backed up against the wall and left the drawer hanging open, eyes directed forward.

_He felt the familiar press of his own service weapon up against the back of his skull._

Against his temple now, but still cold like that night. Like he’d seen it in movies.

_They’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. They’re smart, smarter than me: they’ll finish this case easily._

 

_(and all cases to come)_

 

_They’ll save people better than I ever could._

 

_(everyone you couldn’t save)_

 

_It’ll be fine._

 

His finger stroked the delicate curve of the trigger.

 

A sound rang out and the gun dropped, alone again.

 

He stood outside with his hands in his pockets, knuckles having hovered over the door for much too long now. He was sure he would be kicked out soon enough; a random man, not a tenant, standing silent outside of another’s door for an obnoxious amount of time would surely raise a few eyebrows amongst security. Well, if the building _had_ security. Curious, he turned his head to the corner and was delighted to see a camera aimed down the hall, the device telling him Carisi’s apartment was at least decently protected. He wouldn’t expect any less. Carisi wasn’t an idiot, not really. Any cop would avoid living in slummy buildings with protection in the form of a single weasley secretary in the lobby armed only with a panic button under the front desk. Of course, unless the cop believed they were enough protection for the whole building, which unfortunately a lot of them did. Not Carisi, though. He knew a gun and the knowledge to use it wasn’t equivalent to the wonders of CCTV. 

Or, at least, Rafael hoped. All his prior knowledge of the detective could very well be discarded at this point. He had no idea how his friend could be reacting to his call, or the events that he had found to have taken place when Sonny and Amanda had left to collect Ms. Parcell could be affecting him. It was-- it was _scary,_ he could admit, to have finally reviewed the evidence photos, to realize what he had realized.

He had been in his office, working late from other cases he’d had to handle the messy ends of. Before leaving, he’d agreed to stay a few more hours at least, to take a first look at their evidence and the details of the Turner case. Inside, he knew he might be risking an all-nighter if he got too invested, but he pushed passed it and continued work. The folder, thick with photos and reports, sat in the corner of his desk, settled in a neat pile for once. He pulled it out and resisted a yawn, thinking of running to get coffee before he opened the folder but decided against it.

He skipped the preliminary reports, already knowing the base details of the assault by word of mouth. He was more interested in the damage-- the specifics, what the attack might’ve looked like, perhaps any sketches that could’ve already been done. He started first on the rundown of the crime. It was certainly an interesting one, in regard to how odd the rapist’s tactics were. The first part was standard: drugs slipped into a drink, an incapacitated woman taken advantage of in the suspect’s car. But practically drowning a victim, only to let them live? Stealing jewelry, but only one of a set? Some sort of cheesy metaphor about flight? Those were new. Now, the hearsay about the rapist _wanting_ to get caught wasn’t exactly new, but it was still generally uncommon.

Curious, he put the reports back to where they were and moved on to the bodily evidence, wanting to see how bad the external damage was. He winced in sympathy for the girl as the first photo passed his vision. Bruised ribs, swollen eye, cuts from what he assumed were rings, though Ms. Turner had not reported anything about that. Furthermore, the vaginal damage was atrocious, and the images made Rafael queasy. The last photo, however, was the one to catch his attention. It was of her back, of course. The wounds she talked about. Amongst the freckled skin, red sliced through, bruised, one exposing stained bone. It was a unique cut, he noted, before the floodgates opened and the realized where he’d seen those same cuts before.

That’s why he was here, knocking in intervals on Carisi’s door, needing to talk to him, to discuss what he was certain was true. Though, he knew he had to leave soon if his efforts became futile.

_One more,_ he decided swiftly, raising his fist far above the handle, locked tight. _Then I’ll let him brood._

He sighed and knocked like all those times before, but harder, the bangs loud enough that the neighbors would likely be able to hear him. This was fine to end it on-- if Carisi didn’t hear him now, he would be okay with being chased out. Well, not _okay_ with it per say, moreso tolerant.

Thankfully, however, and against Rafael’s expectations, he heard the door unlock with a beautiful little click. He stood straight as the door opened, however only slightly. From his narrow view he could see that the lights were dimmed, bitter light still raining in from the windows in Carisi’s sitting room, the view of the street below not unappealing nor spectacular. 

_Focus,_ he told himself sharply, _there’s more important things currently than decor._

Carisi looked like he’d been looking the past few days, which was to say not very well. His face was pale but still flushed, normally light blue eyes appearing a dissonant silver. His hair was a mess and he only wore the bare shirt Raf had seen him in the day before, hidden under tight fitting clothes that certainly suited his friend well. Even though he’d now seen Sonny shirtless, it was still particularly odd to see him so informal and casual, especially alone. 

“Barba?” Carisi spoke, his troubled gaze betraying his laidback tone. “What are you- what are you doing here?”

“I needed to see you,” he announced, choosing his words wisely, knowing very well how the last night’s call ended. “It’s important that I do. You know it is.“

“Barba,” Carisi repeated, his voice dropping, turning pleading, vulnerable. “Do one more favor for me, okay? Forget whatever you saw. You don’t need to be roped into somethin’ that doesn’t matter.”

“ _What?_ ” A deep hurt blossomed in Rafael’s chest at the words. Sonny wasn’t supposed to sound like that, for god’s sake. He wasn’t supposed to _think_ like that. “It _matters!_ What happened to you matters, Carisi, god!”

“Please,” the detective muttered. “Please, I can’t, Barba. Just go.”

The door was closing. Animalistic fear bolted through Rafael’s veins and he reached out, right before it could shut all the way. It couldn’t shut, he knew. If it shut, he knew that something would irreversibly change, that something would go horribly wrong. He felt that raw truth sizzling inside him.

He held the door open. He felt there was no force trying to shut it anymore. He gathered himself and let himself in, closing the door behind him to see Carisi standing facing the window, his hands over his face, back to Rafael.

“Carisi,” it was his turn to say names. His mind flashed back to the bathroom-- _god, such similar situations._ The same painful ache in his heart that threatened to throw him over the edge, Carisi alone, wounded in more ways than physical. “Carisi, please look at me.”

“I-” The word shook, and Barba could hear the emotion flooding his voice, raw and unfiltered. “I can’t. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” He moved closer, that burn rising, urgency in the flames. “Carisi, you have to tell me what happened. I can help you, I promise.”

Turning quick enough to shock, Carisi glared at Rafael, his eyes brimming with uneasy tears. “How can you help?” He shouted, but the question still managed to sound genuine. “This’ll ruin me! This’ll ruin _everything_ I’ve ever worked for. I can’t do anything about it, Barba, that’s the way it is, that way it’ll always be.”

Swallowing, Barba continued. “Justice-”

“ _Justice?_ ” Carisi blurted, hysterical. “What? Justice will be served?” He laughed, throwing his hands up and curling them around his chest; however, not quickly enough to hide the shake of his fingers. “ _Fuck_ justice, Barba! Fuck it all! I don’t give a shit anymore. Everything’s already ruined. I’m fucking _ruined._ ”

 

_Ruined._

 

“You’re not ruined,” He desperately assured, wanting, _needing_ to know that Carisi knew that. “Why- Why would you be ruined?”

“He destroyed me. A man, a _man_.. I didn’t realize..” sobs echoed from Carisi’s form as his hands once more drew over his face, shame decorating his features before they were covered up. “A man, he- he caught me in West Virginia. I know what he did to me- I’m not stupid. I’m not. Cause he- he fucking- r-r- he _raped me-_ ”

Even though Rafael had come to the same conclusion earlier, hearing it out of Carisi’s mouth did something to him completely different than the night before. He supposed he’d held out some kind of hope. Why would the bastard follow him back to New York if he’d already done the deed? Maybe Carisi had escaped before it could happen, like with Liv with Lewis. Now, though, he felt a terrible dread freezing him in place, the temperature seeming to drop twenty degrees. It was a lot to swallow, and it felt wrong. He was _Rafael Barba_. He was never supposed to freeze, and he was _never_ speechless, but now he didn’t know what to say, couldn’t form any sensible words to aid the situation.

“Carisi,” he whispered, the only thing he could even begin to utter. “I’m so sorry.”

The detective shook his head and sat down on the edge of the couch, leaning over himself, face angled toward the floor. Mobility returned to Rafael’s limbs at the lack of a response, and he managed to walk closer, shoes loud against the wooden floor, yet Carisi didn’t jump. With hesitation, he managed to sit beside his friend, close enough that their sides brushed and he could feel the cold shiver that racked his body. Carisi didn’t move away, and Barba couldn’t bring himself to. Oddly, he was content with sitting here forever. Perhaps so he wouldn’t have to confront the truth.

“You can’t tell anyone, Barba,” the detective uttered under his breath. “This is my choice, not yours. You can’t tell anyone.”

His heart beat discordantly and he shook his head, looking at the man beside him. “I can’t just let this go. You need help. Whoever did this to you deserves justice. They deserve to be put away for life.” With just as much hesitation as usual, Barba curled his fingers around Carisi’s wrist, pulling his hand away from his face. Exposed, Sonny turned his head with a scowl, embarrassment written across his features. “If we find him, two witnesses is better than one. It increases our chances of putting him away for years.”

“Is that all this is?” he responded quietly, spitefully. “You just wanna get another witness? Another win on your record?”

“No, no, not at all!” he said desperately, inching closer, setting his hand on Carisi’s thigh to try and get a glimpse of his face, to read his feelings, to know what to say. “You’re not gonna get over this with him still out there. It’s just a way we can get him for good, Carisi, _guaranteed._ He won’t be able to hurt- to hurt you or anyone like Abigail Turner again.”

The detective shook his head with vigor, pursing his lips and breathing heavily, a quick, panicked way Rafael had never heard from him before. “I can’t, I refuse to t-testify. I’ll lose- I’ll lose my _job._ ” 

“Carisi-” He laid his arm around Carisi’s shoulders, trying to pull his shaking frame still. “You won’t lose your job. I’ll make sure of it. No one would dare judge you for this, or leave your side. Rollins, Liv, hell, even Fin!”

“No,” he refused. “ _No._ ”

“Liv’s been through this, remember, William Lewis? She’s been through it and she’s still here.”

 

_William Lewis._

 

A common sounding name, sorta fancy. Carisi hoped a name like that would never keep him up at night, but if Barba got what he wanted, it would. He would have a name and a history attached to the man from the bar. No more “man from the bar”, too, it would be John Thompson, Lucas Smith, Derek White. A name that would turn no heads, a name that would ruin his life, would ruin him. He knew at that moment that he _didn’t_ want this case to be solved. He just wanted to run away but stay, all at the same time. The conflict inside him torn at his insides, snapping his heartstrings and tearing at his vocal chords. Barba’s terrible warmth was around him but he felt so cold, so wrong, so empty, with the gun lying directly in view, peeking out from the hallway, motionless against the carpet. He stared at it as his ADA hugged his side, oblivious to the freezing fire it caused in the detective’s body.

“Barba,” he managed to whisper, cutting him off before he could continue. “I can’t. We can’t.”

He needed to get away, but he wanted to stay. He wanted to stay wrapped in Barba’s soft embrace, with the warm hand on his knee, the worried stare eating through his neck. He wanted it so bad.

“Yes, we can.” Closer, tighter, hotter. “I’ll be there the whole time, Carisi. I’ll be there for you.”

_I want it so bad._

 

“I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

 

_So why not?_

 

 

The cab driver didn’t pass them a glance other than when he asked for their destination. They were both dressed well; Barba in what he’d worn when he’d arrived that morning and Carisi in a hastily thrown on suit that would thankfully pass for professional at work. Although they were going to be hidden from prying eyes and the soft flakes of snow raining down from above, the yellow taxi in front of them was daunting in a way Barba couldn’t describe as vividly as he would hope. He’d been in many cabs over his time in New York, and it became a fond occurance to see them. Now, though, it was odd to see it in front of him. In fact, everything looked different. The streets seemed quieter and the colors of everything seemed less opaque than usual. But, obviously, it probably had something to do with the distressed detective practically hanging off his side, the fevered warmth of his coworker the only thing that felt real.

He entered the taxi and shut the door, Carisi following suit, sitting just as close as they had been in his flat. Barba kept his arm around his shoulders at all time, there for support, to keep his promises, the promises that pushed Carisi over the edge and into safety. He knew that those promises meant something formidably foreboding: the connotations for it scared him in a similar way to how he couldn’t describe the taxi. The detective didn’t budge over promises Liv would be there for him, nor Rollins, whom he had been sure Carisi was going to end up marrying. 

_Just me. Now, what must that entail?_

He had a guess, one that would tie most loose ends and eliminate most confusion. Carisi had always been like a puppy dog around him, and here was a sensible reason to latch onto.

_I shouldn’t be thinking about my sexuality at a time like this._

As they turned onto the street and Sonny’s head leaned against his shoulder, he knew there were many other more important things to ponder on, much more important than if he should get back into dating or if he should tell Carisi he’s gay, just to see his reaction, to see if it further proved his assumptions about his friend’s clinginess. He wouldn’t, though. Now was a horrible time to talk about anything like that at all, really. He needed to focus on Carisi’s wellbeing.

He wrapped an arm around the detective’s shoulders and the man accepted it happily, making that small little tick like a clock in his chest begin to go again, beat faster. He briefly acknowledged this feeling and then promptly ignored it.

“Barba?” came the sweet voice of his friend, soft and frightened. “I don’t think I can do this.”

He sighed, not in annoyance but in yearning tenderness. “You can do it, I know you can. I’ll be there every- every step of the way, remember?”

“I just feel so- so stupid about all this,” he admitted slowly, shifting away from Rafael’s touch. He pulled his arm back and allowed Carisi his space, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. “I shouldn’t have- I should have noticed something was up, you know? It’s my damn job, after all.”

“It can happen to anyone, that job of yours has undoubtedly proved that to you, hasn’t it?”

“Y-yeah. I guess, yeah.” He sighed, mirroring Barba’s just moments before. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he queried, noting that the snowfall outside had begun to come down with much more ferosity than before, the earlier pattering growing to something that showed the clear warning signs of a burgeoning blizzard. Barba didn’t necessarily like snow, just as he didn’t like rain, but he hated blizzards. It made traveling even more tiresome usual Manhattan traffic already did. He pitied the cab driver: he’d have to continue working in these conditions.

Carisi seemed to notice the snow too. He sat closer to the opposite door and gazed out the window, no longer maintaining physical contact with the ADA. “I’m asking too much of you.”

Smiling cattily, he shook his head. “Hey, I offered,” he replied offhandedly. “You haven’t asked for anything.”

“Yeah, I have,” the detective bit back stubbornly. “I’m being an idiot, I know. You don’t have to do this.”

“ _Sonny._ ” Barba retaliated, swiveling to face Carisi, knowing his harsh tone had spooked the man beside him. “I want to do this, okay? I really want to, and that’s why I’m here.”

An odd, light emotion passed over Carisi’s features and suddenly he smiled, nodding. “I know how you feel.”

Satisfied, Barba sighed and crossed his arms, internally relieved but not wanting to show it. “Good.”

Then, they were quiet. They ride passed by in a general blur, like most did when occupied with troubled men. They both stayed on their respective sides, he mostly glancing at their driver now and then, who would occasionally mutter disdainfully toward the falling snow. Despite the exasperatingly crawling speed of traffic, probably due to the problematic weather, he was surprised by how quick the drive was. The station was approaching steadily in the distance, a sight he welcomed and dreaded simultaneously. He turned his eyes toward Carisi, to gauge his reaction, but he seemed invested in something on his wrist, running his thumb over what seemed to be a fading yellow bruise. He reluctantly envisioned a rough hand wrapped around Carisi’s arm, squeezing hard enough to cause that injury. He shuddered, turning away and effectively ridding the images from his head. He still couldn’t really process this new fact, though he would never admit it.

“We’re here,” the cabbie shouted from the front, awakening both men from their stupors. “Eighteen eighty.”

Rafael leaned forward and handed the man a twenty, telling him to keep the change. He wasn’t going to trouble himself or the driver with useless things like that. He briskly thanked him before exiting the vehicle, stepping onto the sidewalk and feeling the bitter wind whipping his hair. The pavement beneath his feet was slippery with newly fallen powder and the streets were covered with ugly brown slush. He sighed and shook his head, wringing his hands together to conserve their heat. As Carisi stepped out and they were left alone, he found himself missing the departing taxi cab, the odd leathery smell and familiar warmth. Or, perhaps he just wanted to stall what was to come. He’d tell himself it was solely for Carisi’s sake, but he wasn’t sure that was the whole truth.

This wasn’t the first time he looked upon the station with anxiety from the streets, but it definitely was the worst. This time it wasn’t just him, alone and apprehensive for a case, for Liv. Carisi sidled back up beside him, their shoulders brushing, and Raf took that as a sign to go. He began their final trek but the detective didn’t follow, pausing the prosecutor in his tracks.

“Barba, I just..” he wavered, still stubborn despite the situation. “It sounds stupid but I- Christ, I’m scared, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Follow my lead,” Rafael commented, maintaining composure, walking forward. Snow fell in his vision, and then it was gone, replaced by gray walls and the idle chatter that always seemed to be present in law enforcement buildings. They were here. It was time.

Entering the bullpen, Barba spotted Fin sitting idle at his desk, leaning back and obviously bored with whatever he’d been tasked with. “Hey Tutuola, do you happen to know where your Lieutenant is?” he asked professionally as he approached, “or are you too busy with that?” he motioned vaguely at the man’s computer screen, displaying what anyone could recognize as digital case files.

“Oh trust me, I’d rather be anywhere than here,” Fin joked, sounding just as uninterested as he looked. “She’s wrapping things up with a new victim.”

Barba could practically feel Carisi stiffen behind him. “A new case?” the detective inquired hopefully, a smile in his voice.

 

Fin shook his head, and that simple gesture was like a prison sentence. Carisi stepped closer to Rafael and Rafael stepped closer to Carisi. _Pray,_ he thought, mourning his plans. _Pray that it’s not what I know it’ll be._

 

“It’s seeming like another for the Turner case. Kid had those cuts on his back bleedin’ through his shirt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> carisi: literally suffering from PTSD and an emotional mess
> 
> barba's brain: i wonder if hes into men


	5. Implicit Demand For Proof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. Things be the way they be. I didn't have a computer for p much all of summer and I had to write on my phone, which somehow just absolutely sucks the fun out of writing. 
> 
> Anyways, apology aside, I really don't like how I wrote this chapter, but I owe you guys something. I blame it on having to write 99% of it on a goddamn phone.
> 
> (The computer I'm using is on its last legs. It is falling apart and many keys are missing, though it is much better than writing on a phone. I'll get a school issued one when the new year starts.)
> 
> Enjoy, perhaps. I might edit this chapter later, it wont change any of the events that take place, but it would probably bring more detail to them.  
> !!And if you find any spelling mistakes I missed in my first edits, feel free to tell me!!

“He- he threw me in the water, and every time I came to the surface I- h-he kicked me back down,” Dolan Garcia bent forward in his chair, shoulders curling in on themselves. He shivered like he was cold, hands rubbing the sides of his arms in order to cure this imaginary chill. “I thought I was in hell, that I was stuck in a loop, over and over. Every time, I could only get enough breath to hold until I reached the surface. Then, back down again. My lungs were on fire. Again, again, and again and again-”

Reaching forward, Olivia set her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Dolan,” she interrupted, grief in her voice. “You’re safe now, honey. You’re not there.”

Dolan melted into her embrace and sobbed.

Carisi’s skin prickled like he’d seen a ghost, and he supposed he had. It was the ghost of his own memories, the ones that detailed that exact event, shimmering like a mirage over the image in front of him. He crossed his arms and hit the mute button near the window without a warning to his partner beside him. Amanda flinched, and he avoided her gaze.

“I’ve heard enough,” he said, feeling an odd anger begin to grow within his veins. He was tired of this, tired of being dragged back and forth, being thrown down emotional roller coaster after emotional roller coaster. His hands clenched into fists and he hid them in his pockets. “It’s the same. What more do we need?”

“Jesus, Carisi!” Rollins blurted. “What the hell is wrong with you today?”

Seeing Liv cradling Dolan Garcia like a child in distress made him uncomfortable, irrational. He felt Barba’s soft embrace around his shoulders and he shook it off, feeling dirty. The similarities were uncanny, no different than the two in his apartment, less than an hour before. 

“You know what? Nothing, nothing at all,” he turned on his heel and went toward the door. Rollins caught him by the forearm and her grip was tight-- he could feel her blue eyes drilling into his back as he pulled from her grasp, walking from the interrogation room moodily. Soon, he spotted Barba discussing something with Fin near his desk, eyes reluctantly focused on the former’s handsome face, lit up with his usual soft intelligence as he chatted.

“You’re coming with me,” he grumbled, grabbing the lawyer by the wrist. He felt Barba almost stumble as he went, but he ignored it, though he found himself aching to show mercy.

“Carisi-” Barba began, but he’d already rounded the corner, finding the same bathroom from the day before. Taking the opportunity, he threw the door open and shoved Barba inside.

“Was this your plan all along?” Carisi spat, his hesitant anger beginning to sizzle dangerously inside of him. “To comfort me, like I’m some victim?”

Barba stared back, confusion similar to Amanda’s fermenting in his eyes. “What plan?” he managed to ask, the warm and innocent tone in the ADA’s voice enough to make Carisi melt, to wilt his agitation, even if only by the smallest margin.

“I can’t believe I believed you so easy!” He jammed an accusatory finger against Barba’s chest, feeling the smooth, expensive fabric of the man’s tie rub smoothly against his skin. “I was right. I’m just another witness to you, another win on your record. All that sappy bullshit was all just an act, right?”

“No, that’s not even _close_ to the truth!”

A heavy ball formed in his throat and he drew closer, like a cat stalking a mouse, pressing tightly against Barba’s front. The prosecutor staggered from the force, closing the short distance between him and the sink. Carisi leaned forward, inches from Rafael’s face, feeling the lump grow larger, the weight forcing water to grow in his eyes.

“You don’t care about me at all, counselor. Just admit it.”

Barba didn’t respond, still gazing uselessly with his lips parted. That anger that had taken him began to dim and sputter out, taking the aggression with it, leaving only a deep, dripping well of simple disappointment in its wake.

He swallowed, once again caught by the shock morphing the attorney’s face, refusing to acknowledge the feeling inside of him popping like firecrackers. He couldn’t feel that way- he couldn’t let these _sensations_ happen, not to him. If anyone found out, he didn’t know how they’d react. So, nailing the coffin shut, he parted his lips and finished. “I’m not telling anyone anything.”

He couldn’t bare to look into Barba’s eyes anymore. He gritted his teeth and released the lawyer from between him and the sink, stalking out and slamming the door behind him, yearning to do _something_ to ignore the swirling regret inside of him. 

Wiping his eyes, he re-entered the squad room and returned to breathing normally, hoping no one would notice what’d just conspired. Though, he _was_ surrounded by experienced, aware detectives and officers, so it wasn’t a huge surprise when Fin narrowed his eyes in his direction, mouth open to question what he was currently seeing.

Raising a hand to stop his efforts, Carisi pursed his lips. “Not now,” he said, face burning. “I need to know what we’ve got on the Turner case.”

Arching an eyebrow at him, Fin shook his head, expression reading _I don’t know what’s gotten into you, and I don’t particularly wanna know._ “Sure, man,” he muttered. “Though, it’s _technically_ the Turner-Garcia case now.”

“Don’t remind me. We got any workable leads?”

Thankfully, Fin nodded and leaned forward, grabbing a folder off a pile on his desk. “One right here,” he spoke, sighing. “Some place called Royal Rabbit Parlor. Turns out the victims were both drugged and taken at the same bar.”

He took the folder and thumbed through it. Base floor plans of the Royal Rabbit, address, hours. One particular detail caught his attention, though. The owner’s name was listed as _Casey Quinn_ , a name he was fortunately familiar with.

“Well, I’ll go check this out. Thanks Fin,” he nodded and closed the file, glancing toward the door where Rollins was no doubt still listening to Dolan Garcia’s story, feeling guilty about taking his troubles out on her.

“You gonna take Rollins?” Fin asked as if he’d read Carisi’s mind. 

“No, no, I think I’ll go-“

“With me,” Turning on his heel, Sonny was more than shocked to see Barba standing there, straightening his tie with a shit-eating grin on his face. The lawyer’s eyes were glassy and guarded, though, as they both gauged each other’s reactions. 

Fin, exasperated with the two lawyers, stared puzzled from behind them. “Alright then, have fun,” he murmured, standing from his chair and wordlessly joining Amanda in the interrogation room.

“Really, Barba? Don’t you have court?” Carisi snapped, unsure if he truly was annoyed at the prospect of Barba’s company.

The attorney kept up the smart smile, nodding. “Nope, all free.”

 

 

“I didn’t mean what I said,” Carisi admitted as they exited the car, wishing for the tension in the air to dissipate. Unwilling to look at Rafael, he let his eyes wander to the sign on the building in front of him— it was black, displaying the bar’s name, each capital R decorated with a pair of glittery hot pink rabbit ears. It was largely gaudy in even the little sun cutting through the snowfall, standing out like a sore thumb amongst the other plain shops nearby.

“I know,” Barba said simply, walking passed his friend without another word, the doorway jingling sweetly as he disappeared inside. Feeling even guiltier than before, Carisi followed, the wintry air shifting to a warm, somewhat humid temperature. The interior of Royal Rabbit Parlor was, as expected, similarly themed to the sign. That was to say it was also gaudy and definitely hard on the eyes. The square modern black tables had sharp pink accents and small dapplings of sparkling glitter, paired with dark chairs, fit with a similar dappling of feminine sparkles. The walls were black and decorated with lighter stripes, mostly covered up by photos of women and other usual modern decor, matched with a dark mahogany wood floor. Surprisingly enough, though, the back of the bar appeared to be a separate section for strippers, their metal poles gleaming in the harsh pink lights. 

“This is more like a club than anything,” Barba remarked, peeking behind the bar as if he suspected someone was hiding behind it. “Also seems like we’re not here at what I’d call ‘prime business hours.’”

He was right— the place was completely deserted. Quiet, subdued hip hop music played over the speakers, barely recognizable, definitely not at the volume it’d usually be if people were there. “Is it closed?” Carisi pondered, turning back toward the exit, hoping to see any sort of notice for the place’s hours but coming up empty.

“No, no I don’t-“

“I think you boys are in the wrong place.”

Surprised by the voice, Carisi turned on his heel and searched for the speaker, finding a woman leaning against the bar. Her face was tan and worn, sunny brown hair tied up messily in a ponytail hanging just far enough down to meet her shoulders. Amused, she smiled, standing up straight. “The gay club is a few blocks away.”

“ _What?_ ” Immediately embarrassed, heat rose steadily to his face, hands coming up to desperately hide the blush wreaking havoc across his cheeks. Gay was not a word he preferred directed toward him, absolutely not; it made his insides squirm and his emotions shake, like the thin surface of a cup of coffee when a train rumbles by. The word _gay_ was strictly associated to an incident when he was a teenager-- unaware, he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off perfect Jeffery Docal, outstanding band kid and beautiful singer, whenever the older kid walked into a room. It was something he never really registered until the week before Jeffrey’s graduation. A young and naive Sonny Carisi had asked the senior to sign his yearbook, but apparently his secret looks hadn’t been as secret or personal as he’d thought— Jeffrey Docal had noticed, and he’d told all of his friends about the little gay boy who was stalking him. The next day, he was sent home with a black eye and “fag” written in sloppy green paint across the front of his locker. His own senior year, though now void of Docal’s presence, had been filled with nothing but jokes from what remained of Jeffrey’s loyal crowd.

_Little queers like you should rot in hell, you know. Wait until your mother finds out her little golden boy is a faggot._

_Sonny, I’ve heard some things happened at school.._ are _you gay, honey?_

The silence was too overwhelming, too cold and overbearing for it to remain any longer. His mind hurried to fill the empty with words, to stop the flood leaking through his brain. “I- uh, no, we’re police, ma’am, looking for, um-“ he fumbled for his badge, too focused on controlling his breathing and appearing casual to get a good grasp on anything.

“Casey Quinn, the building’s owner. That’s you, isn’t it?” Came Barba’s sweet voice, bringing him back into the present, where he was a distinguished man, a police officer and not a scared little boy. He managed at small smile at Rafael’s tone, amused and not containing even a hint of embarrassment or worry, nothing like his own reaction. Thankful, he found his eyes back on Rafael, but the prosecutor was still completely unbothered by the events prior, staring at the woman in front of them with only a pinch of interest. Accepting Barba’s reaction, or lack of one, as just another confusing and endearing characteristic of the man, he shook his head and shoved all those godforsaken thoughts to the back of his brain. Unlike his friend, god only knew when he would get over that damn comment. Why would anyone think they were gays? There was nothing to indicate that, or so Carisi hoped. He knew, at least when he was a scrawny teenager, that others had seen him and immediately thought he was a homosexual, but he had to assume that was because of the rumors, not his looks by themselves. Feeling a rush of jumbled, unfocused insecurity flush his system, he adjusted his weight and straightened his tie, trying his best to look alright, completely normal, and definitely straight.

No one seemed to notice his movements, as the conversation moved on without fault. For this he was eternally grateful.

“Yes, yes that’s me. I do own this little old place— well, I wouldn’t say old. I’ve ran it for decades, stood with it through thick and thin. Even when those awful buggers tried to burn it down,” Ms. Quinn laughed and strode behind the bar, her fingers curling around a bottle of what looked like vodka, other hand fetching a glass to her left. Carisi watched carefully as she poured the alcohol, instinctually wary of any drinks produced by the establishment. “Homophobes are sure something awful, I’ll tell you. They never stop and never go away, though it’s gotten much better the past few years.”

“This is a lesbian bar?” He queried, trying to shake the relieved stammer from his breath. So he didn’t look gay— it was just that this woman herself was, and seeing two strange men in her strictly female space was perhaps a little jarring.

Smiling warmly, Casey nodded. “Has been for 35 years,” she informed. “We get guests a little after four o’clock. Gay women use this as a safe space often, or as somewhere to get a little pleasure, be it from the alcohol or other things.” 

Well, that didn’t line up with Abigail Turner’s story at all.

“Now, Ms. Quinn, could you tell me why a business would host an employee’s birthday party here?” He moved passed Barba, sitting down and placing his palms on the smooth, cold surface of the bar’s countertop, working to meet the shorter woman’s eye level. “Or was it a special occasion?”

Casey cocked her head in honest confusion, setting the glass of vodka in front of Carisi. “What?”

A pleasant chill ran up Sonny’s back as Rafael approached from behind, standing close enough for the detective to feel his body heat radiating from his chest. “Do you know Abigail Turner?” The prosecutor continued for his partner. About to speak up, he was silenced when Barba’s hand found itself on his shoulder. More of that wrong, but terribly addicting heat ran to his face, and he couldn’t find any motivation to shake the hand off, to move or refuse the grasp. Instead, he let his body gravitate closer into Rafael’s touch, allowing himself to feel comfort in the position.

“Oh, Abby? I heard what happened to her- I should’ve assumed that’s what you were here for, of course..” she shook her head and nursed the glass she had poured for herself. A certain guilt sat in her dark eyes, but it was one Sonny could differentiate from the traditional remorse. “There was no birthday party. Abby’s a regular here. The night she was- well, taken, I believe she was surfing for a date.”

“She didn’t tell us that,” Carisi said.

“Oh, I suppose not. She’s deep in the closet when it comes to her professional life. Her brother isn’t exactly accepting of anyone outside of his traditional family views,” she sighed and shook her head, seemingly disappointed. “He’s a stubborn man, but he’d never hurt Abigail. I tried to get her to tell him, but in the end, it was her choice, and she chose to hide it.”

_Sounds familiar._

“Okay, now do you remember a college party going on here? Kids from John Jay U, maybe a boy named, uh-” he sputtered on the name, having only heard it a handful of times. “A college kid named Dolan Garcia?”

Inexplicably, Casey’s face scrunched up like she had eaten something spoiled, straightening her posture and looking at Carisi like he’d just snatched her first born child. “Actually, _her_ name is _Dahlia_ ,” she seethed, the sound of her glass slamming against the countertop ringing throughout the empty bar and causing Carisi to jolt backwards, almost falling if not for Rafael’s close proximity. “And to think I thought-“

A pang of alarm jolted up through Carisi’s veins and he eagerly shook his head, lips pursed and limbs feeling stiff. “Oh, no, Ma’am, it was an honest mistake. He- she didn’t tell us that. She introduced herself as Dolan. So did- so did her friends.”

“Oh, why would she-“

“Transgender people often feel intimidated by authority figures, especially police. It makes sense that she went stealth during her own rape case, doesn’t it?” Bewildered, Carisi glanced over his shoulder, but Barba’s eyes were centered on his target, tongue ready to dispute anything the woman in front of them had to say.

There was a distinctly palpable pause, in which Sonny sat in the most awkward silence imaginable. In reality, it mustn’t have been that long, but to the detective, waiting for someone to speak felt like a lifetime. As always, however, Carisi himself was a pro at filling silences, so he took a breath and steeled himself for topics he knew very little about.

“Well, did you see Dahlia here yesterday night?” He asked, trying to return to the point of their visit. “We need to confirm her story.”

Begrudgingly accepting their apologies, Ms. Quinn exhaled and shook her head. “I didn’t,” she admitted decidedly slowly, nodding her head along with her words. “We were short staffed, but I’ve been working double night shifts to help pay for my son's college fees. Well, he’s my adopted son— not official, of course, but he is my son in my heart. He was manning the bars, solo. He must’ve seen something.” Smiling as her hand slipped into her back pocket, she procured a wallet, the leather white and engraved with what looked like flowers. She pulled a rectangular photo - which seemed to be a small, worn polaroid - from inside, sliding it face down into Carisi’s view. Plucking it from the bar’s surface, he felt his muscles tense.

The boy looked young, skin pale and clear. His hair was a curly, unkempt mess, shining a dark muted brown beneath the flash of the camera, a stray stand falling just over above eye. There was a smile on his pink lips as he hugged a woman who shared the same dark curls, her own falling well passed her shoulders. She was smiling as well, the whites of her teeth almost blinding, her eyes closed in some nice, traditional joy. The thing with this photo, though, had nothing to do with those details. To Carisi, only one thing _really_ shone through. There was a man in the background, pupils hugged by familiar hazel bands.

His eyes couldn’t leave it. Couldn’t leave _him._

“His name is August, August Whittier-Hall. I’m picking him up from his morning classes for lunch in a little over an hour— maybe you could talk to him then. He’ll be waiting outside his dormitory.” Casey spoke pridefully, her tone full of love for this boy, this product of what could only be something terrible. He couldn’t help but fall desperately into conclusions; this was obviously a family. A mother, a son, and a father. How could someone, a real, innocent woman, marry a man who could commit such heinous acts so casually?

“What dorm hall is he at?” Barba asked, oblivious to what Carisi had discovered.

His heart ached as he stared at the woman, frozen in time. _Maybe she’s a victim too._

“He’s at Carman Hall, west entrance. Please do tell me when you’re done with him, though. He has classes in the afternoon as well.”

His idea of sliding the photo back ended up more of a slap back. Wordlessly, he finally stumbled to his feet and removed himself from Barba’s hands, knowing any touch was too much for his skin, feeling like burns, fingernails digging into his flesh, grunts and moans from above screaming out, too loud, much too loud, like thousands of tiny nails being screwed into his ears, deeper and deeper, harder and harder-

_No._

_He can’t hurt you._

_Not anymore._

_Pull yourself together._

“Thanks, we’ll get him,” He shook the fear off, blinking the images away and tapping Barba in the shoulder. “Come on.“

 

 

Sitting in the car, the smell of sweaty alcohol and cigarette ash seemed to crawl back from his memories and fill the space to it’s bursting point. The bustle of the city was muffled by the doors, but it somehow felt louder, acute, sharp, each muted screech of a car feeling like a hammer slammed against his skull. A headache was forming in the forefront of his brain, pulsing and throbbing against the back of his eyes. The snow outside had lightened up inexplicably, no longer surrounding the car in that swirling storm of opaque white, and as such no longer worsened the pain in his head. Small miracles. 

He could now clearly see the doors of Carman Hall in the distance, and his body itched to interrogate whoever August Whittier-Hall was. His body was coiled, ready to pounce at any quick movement, stuck sitting stagnant in a terrible fight or flight mode that could never decide what it wanted. Anxiety trickled down his arms like tiny snakes, mixing with the adrenaline and swimming together like whiskey and ketamine downed in a glass. Like a stupid, mindless man who didn’t even remember to do his goddamn job, ruining his life with a mistake as simple as the hesitation to simply glance.

“You’re shaking,” The voice was loud in Carisi’s ears, the flinch involuntary, throwing heat to his face from the sign of weakness, of the shell he’d been left with after he had fallen. He could feel the frown on Barba’s face as the lawyer leaned toward him, fingers ghosting across Sonny’s knuckles, tracing the yellowed remains of mottled, fading bruises, evidence that he was indeed a fighter, that he fought to escape that special hell with his own life.

Sighing, the detective shook his head, keeping his eyes focused on spotting their suspect, resisting temptation. “I’m fine,” he all but whispered, his heart beating heavily in his chest as Barba retracted his hand, hating the regret that fell in a hot wave over his skin.

He brought his hands in his lap and laced his own fingers together, desperate to quell their shaking with his own personal willpower. He watched as a batch of students exited the building, all girls. He couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed; still, he was able to let out the breath he’d been holding, sitting back in his seat and waiting for the next face to search.

“Is this really what you have to deal with all day?” Barba asked after a quiet few seconds, sounding bored. Thankful for the change in conversation, Carisi nodded.

“It’s not so bad,” he admitted lightly. “Better than what you do all day, I guess. I dunno if I could handle a workload like yours.”

Barba scoffed. “And here I thought you _wanted_ to be a lawyer.”

“Yeah, I do. Did, maybe. I just don’t think I could give up-“ he gestured to the view in front of them, snow piling on the hood of their car, decorating the trees and street as they waited, with the sun just barely filtering through the downpour. “Give up this.”

“What, sitting in a car waiting for something that might never happen?”

“No, counselor, this _life._ The hunt, being in the field, takin’ predators off the streets with my own two hands. Doing my part to clean the world of pricks like- pricks like whoever did- did _that_ to me.” Mentioning it felt, unexpectedly, good, in a peculiar, vague way. And for once he _wasn’t_ the one with his body forcibly constricting from imaginary tension, though, now it was Barba’s turn. Feeling some sort of remorse, albeit not strong enough to take back his words, Sonny dipped his head. “I dunno, Barba. Especially after, well, after that, I- I just know this is where I’m supposed to be, y’know? In this car, well, with you, tracking down the bad guy and puttin’ him away. It feels- it just feels so, so goddamn right. And I don’t know how to explain that, at least not right now.”

Uneasy anxiety settled in Carisi’s stomach. He swallowed and took his eyes off the building for one second, turning to face the man in the seat beside him.

Barba was staring at him too.

“We’ll find him, Carisi,” Rafael promised, his voice tight with strained emotion, face just as unreadable as always. “I will _never_ let him touch you again.”

“Yeah?” he whispered, like a dare, dangerous flames dancing beneath his flesh.

Leaning closer, Barba placed a hand on Carisi’s shoulder, thumb cupping his neck. Sonny felt his eyes widen and breath leave his lungs, staring down into the jutting mocha depths of Rafael’s brown eyes, sprinkles of icy green settled around his irises just like the snowflakes falling right outside. He swallowed, unable to shut his mouth, face burning up like the sun on a hot day.

“I mean it, Sonny. I do care about you. I can’t stand to see you hurt, I- I just can’t. Well, I.”

“You what?” He didn’t even feel like he was speaking, lips numb, tongue simultaneously weightless and just as heavy as lead. He felt himself lean closer, his body begging, yearning for touch, a touch that he wanted, a touch that he craved. Barba’s lips were mere inches away, and it tore at his lungs, the possibility of it sending his heart into a frenzy. His entire being was working on pure instinct, autopilot, hot, excited flashes ripping through his nerves like untethered free roaming electricity, disregarding his mind’s pleas to stop, to realize what he was doing was bad, wrong, sinful. His heart ran quick like a tiny hummingbird was captive within his ribcage, beating its little wings and trying desperately to escape. They were growing ever closer, minds preoccupied, abandoned in favor of their heart’s control. Though Carisi’s heart normally wore the pants in the relationship, it was now screaming out in ecstasy, knowing it was so close, _so close._

A second chance to present a broken toy to a perfect child.

He pulled away. 

He didn’t need to face rejection. He couldn’t handle it, no, not from Barba, never. It would _kill_ him, he knew. It would be the final straw.

A sorry sat on his lips, but it disappeared in a second, never to be spoken, because the exact moment he opened his mouth, he recognized the dark messy hair of August Whittier-Hall in the very corner of his eye, disrupting his sorrow with the humble realities of the world around.

Without another word, he popped the door open, throwing himself into the swirling cold and blinking the stray snowflakes caught in his eyelashes. Rafael called out behind him, but he soon became quiet-- he must’ve seen August too. Guilty for leaving the ADA behind but glad the lawyer was out of harm's way, he trudged forward. He approached the boy standing idle on the curb, a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, eyes searching for what Carisi could only assume was Casey Quinn’s car, which would never come. They’d instructed Casey to stay home while they interviewed August— the kid was 19 and didn’t need to have a guardian present in any step of the way, thankfully. Sneaking up, he cleared his throat, putting on a polite farce while August turned lazily around. He recognized the late night-cramming sleep deprivation without even needing to think about it, the relation to his own experiences bringing a smile to his face, hoping to relate to the kid in order to get him to talk.

He pulled out his badge.

As August’s bleary eyes registered the image in front of him, they widened and woke up completely, alarms exploding in those disturbingly familiar hazel irises. He breathed in and stepped back- Carisi put his hands out to signal he meant no harm, but before he could bring his arm up to block it, a fist slammed against his face, the momentum behind the punch unrealistic for a boy of August’s stature, unless he really worked out, or fucking something, because otherwise it was absurd that a scrawny little boy’s punch had the energy to knock him backward into the empty street, face falling in a slap against the ground, dirty, gasoline-tasting slush slipping its way into his mouth as his limp body registered what happened to it. Spitting, he clambered to his feet stared down August, who stood, petrified, meeting Carisi’s eyes with some sort of horror that the detective could not comprehend. Whatever it was, it was enough to get the kid skidding through the snow in the opposite direction.

“Goddammit!” he spat through clenched teeth, shaking the snow out of his hair before begrudgingly making chase.

It was hard to run in snow, but it seemed to be slowing August down much more than Carisi, someone who was used to running in many conditions, even these. He moved his arms quickly, legs practically leaping through the accumulating snowfall, feeling his shoulder blades begin to throb from the constant movement. The freezing wind brought tears to his eyes, obscuring his vision, but he continued, finally getting close enough to pounce, grabbing August by the back of his parka and tackling him to the ground.

Satisfied with his victory, he jammed the ball of his hand into August’s back, pinning him and hastily cuffing him as the teenager squirmed. “You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer,” he snarled disdainfully, hoisting the kid up from the ground as he felt something warm and wet drip from his aching nose. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

 

 

“I’m not saying anything,” hissed August Whittier-Hall, his back slouched forward, hiding his face from Amanda as the detective circled him like prey. “You can’t make me, you know that.”

“Oh, I _do_ know that,” she retorted smartly, the legs of her chair grinding against the floor as she pulled it out, sitting down and crossing her arms. “But, you know what I wanna know, August? I want to know why you ran from one of our detectives, and attacked him, no less.”

-

Carisi sat outside, holding a tissue to his nose and waiting for the blood to stop pouring. 

-

“I had- I had to get away,” August continued with a snarl, beginning to sweat and avoiding Rollins’ eyes. “I didn’t want to hit him. I didn’t. It didn’t even work anyway!”

“What didn’t work?” She queried, moved closer to the boy, aiming to intimidate.

-

Leaning criminally far back in his office chair, Carisi glanced at the mess of his desk, frowning at the photos of his family hidden behind mounds of paperwork he’d begun to neglect. Everything, sadly, was just normal. There had been a few days after his and Rollins’ trip where their caseload seemed to halve, but now it seemed to be picking up its pace. Though, one thing seemed to be out of place— a neon yellow post-it note that was slapped on his keyboard, of all places.

-

“Getting away!” August all but screamed, banging his fists on the table. “Warning him! Telling him to run, stop looking, for his own sake!”

-

Reaching back and peeling it carefully from the keys, Carisi studied it, seeming blank before he flipped the paper over. He stared in confusion at the neat, swirly handwriting, written in a deep black ink.

_My name is Beverly. I was raped by the same man who raped you._

A street address was listed below. 

-

“Why should we stop looking?” Rollins questioned, curious. 

-

_He knows where you live, where I live._

-

Frustrated, August rapidly shook his head, curling into himself, looking crazed. “Not you,” he whispered. “Him. The detective. Dominick.”

-

 _He’s threatened my life if I go to the police. I need help, please._  
_Come alone._  
His lips parted and his breaths were shallow; in a swift movement, he ripped the note at the address and stuck the information in his pocket, crushing the other half into a ball and tossing it in the trash beside his desk. Someone, another victim, knew about _him._ Though aware it was likely an empty threat, the simple prospect of his rapist invading his home, his last piece of privacy, was enough to send his body into complete overdrive. He could tell he was gravely overreacting, not thinking, but in that moment, he truly didn’t care. Hopping out of his seat, he threw his coat on and grabbed his keys, heading for the elevator.

-

“What?” A sticky, humid dread settled over the room like a dense fog. Narrowing her eyes, Rollins spoke, cautious. “How the hell do you know him?”

-

“Hey, where are you going now?”

At the sound of Rafael’s voice, Carisi stopped in his tracks. “The nosebleed stopped,” he informed, dodging the question with a smile. “I don’t need the tissues, but thanks anyway.”

“What happened?” The prosecutor asked, his previously somewhat cheery tone newly disrupted by quiet suspicion. He sighed— Rafael’s ability to see through him was sure getting old, _and_ risky. He didn’t know what kind of victim he was going to find at that address, what kind of distress she was in. God knows what kind of wackjob he would’ve seemed like in another’s eyes the night he stumbled back into that motel room, dazed and manic. At his lack of a response, Barba pouted. “Come on, don’t shut me out now.”

-

“I drugged those girls, you know. I did. I was gonna end up like that detective if I didn’t.”

-

“Come on,” Cupping Rafael’s forearm, he guided the attorney into the elevator, pressing for the ground floor and waiting until the doors closed. “I got a note, about another victim. They want me to meet them.”

“So, you’re just going?” Barba scoffed, and Sonny exhaled, exasperated. “Why didn’t you tell anyone else? You might need backup.”

“The note mentioned what he did,” he admitted slowly, rubbing his arm with his free hand, anxious. “To me. And I made my stance on that clear.”

-

Now deadly serious, Amanda’s heart began to slow, like it always did before a confession. “What do you mean, August?” She questioned, tone dark.

-

“That’s technically withholding evidence, a key witness, in fact.” Barba managed to joke.

Smirking, Carisi laughed, cocking his head at Rafael amusedly. “What, you gonna charge me with obstruction, counselor?”

A kind little smile settled on Barba’s lips as the elevator pinged, doors sliding open and revealing the lower levels of the precinct. At the sight of the crowd outside, they both cleared their expressions, stepping out of the way of the bundle of officers waiting for a ride up. 

-

“When I was little, I was- I am gay, and my dad, he didn’t like that. That’s how he started, I think, with me. Then mom, and so many others- but out of all of them, his Dominick is his favorite. He said- he said it was the best sex he ever had.” August wiped his eyes, and at that, the room seemed to freeze over, frost creeping up the walls, window fogging with the weight of the outside temperature. Everything fell to stop, and all other sounds slithered to a halt. “Tonight’s the night, the night he gets him back, his favorite toy, his little stupid detective.”

-

The sun had just begun to set as he walked outside, reminding him that it was still winter, and the nights were always earlier and earlier. Mind wandering, he glanced at Barba, who was looking at him oddly— a soft stare that send delight pulsing in each beat of his heart. Clearing his throat, he looked away, now used to the dirty feelings that came with his attraction.

“You’re really coming with me?” He asked, unable to help himself.

-

Bursting out of the interrogation room, Amanda was unable to stop herself was panicking. “Carisi!” She all but screamed, seeing his desk so painfully empty, phone forgotten on his chair.

-

A chuckle passed Barba’s lips, as if the question was stupid. “Of course.”

Carisi knew there was no way of getting Rafael to let him go alone, so he nodded, feeling warm, loved, blind to what was now destined to occur.

 

 

The sky had darkened to night by the time the two arrived at the address, a place beside the harbor, somewhere that Carisi could see himself standing after a hard days work, reflecting on the cases he’d struggled with. Unusual for a waterside front, even at night, there didn’t seem to be anyone around, save for a small girl sitting alone on a park bench. Her face was round and young, gray puffy jacket curled tightly around her small body. Her blue scarf was large and long, hiding her neck and pushing up against her soft, undefined chin. Even at first glance, Carisi knew she couldn’t have been any older than fourteen.

Stepping out of the car’s warmth, Beverly turned to watch him. Those wide, innocent eyes filled with hope and apprehension as she stared, waiting. Though, this expression changed as Rafael exited behind him; it morphed to one of fear. She hopped from the bench and stood, posture tense and wired like she a rabbit ready to bolt. 

“Come alone!” She shouted, distraught, hands turning to fists at her sides. “It said you were supposed to come alone.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Carisi approached, hiding his caution with a friendly smile. “This is my friend, Rafael. He’s a lawyer, he can help you.”

Beverly stared at them, her eyes growing wide and teary, plump bottom lip quivering, and a sniffle sounding from her nose. She looked around like she was being watched and ran forward— Sonny instinctively jumped back, but her arms still encircled his waist without fail.

She nuzzled into his jacket, head just barely coming up to his chest. Her hair seemed a silvery white in the streetlight’s beam, splayed against her back in a messy braid, heaving upward with each of the girl’s sobs. A weight grew over his heart and he knelt, placing his hands on Beverly’s shoulders and pulling her close, knowing he would not be able to heal her wounds.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled between breaths, her soft, southern voice wobbly and breaking. “ _Sorry,_ sorry..”

“It’s not your fault, sweetheart,” he soothed quietly, wondering how a child would fit into the man’s MO, if he even had one. “Why would it be your fault?”

Her hands clutched deeper around his waist, and Carisi faltered- she grasped and pulled, a click registering in his ears, slamming her open hand against his chest. It was a weak blow, but just enough to disorient long enough for her to scramble away, and scramble she did, his belt feeling decidedly lighter than before.

Now fallen on his ass, Carisi was staring down the barrel of his own gun, held by a shaking young girl. 

“Carisi- _ah!_ ” Barba shouted, footsteps interrupted by a struggle- the detective turned, grasping at the pavement, watching as Rafael was thrown into a chokehold, a new gun held tightly against his skull, by a man, by _the_ man, the one from the bar, the one in the car, the one who held him underwater until he forgot what breathing felt like.

The world felt like it was being fast forwarded. He couldn’t do anything to stop _anything_ \- his breaths were shallow as he whipped his head back and forth, going from Beverly to that god awful face, choking the life out of Barba, god, _his_ Barba.

“No,” he said, voice breaking. “No, god, please, _no!_ ”

“Dominick!” His voice was like a stake being plunged into his ears. He didn’t feel like that was his own name anymore- not from the man’s lips, not now, no. It was foreign, wrong. “Oh, so little time has felt so goddamn long.”

He was real, physical. Carisi, sober, too sober, could see him truly. No blurry vision, no shaking, no confusion. He stood, tanned and handsome, nursing the same jarring white smile from before, hazel eyes wide and calm.

“Alan, we got him. We have him, can we go home now?” Beverly spoke from behind him, seeming unbothered now, although impatient. 

_Alan?_

“Carisi-“ Barba sputtered out, hands desperately pulling against the fabric of Alan’s jean jacket sleeve, trying to pry the man’s arm off.

“We can leave, sweetie, after we deal with.. This.”

His life was crumbling, toppling out of his grasp. He scratched at the concrete, trying to grab hold of anything to stop this fall, unable to tear his eyes away from Barba’s face. He felt like he was dying, like he’d been shot, like his throat, chest, stomach were rotting, lit on fire and left to simmer.

He whispered no. Again, again, again. _No._

“So who _is_ this, Dominick?”

_Not him. Not Barba._

He moved forward, knees scraping against the ground, watching as Alan’s finger slipped around the silver trigger of his pistol.

“ _STOP!_ ” He found himself screaming, reaching out to someone who couldn’t reach back.

“Oh, don’t get jealous now,” Alan quipped, readjusting his posture and yanking Barba onto a straighter position, eliciting a cry of pain from the ADA. “I only have eyes for you, baby. I’m only here for you.”

“Then take me!” The words fell from his mouth with little hesitation- Barba squirmed in Alan’s grip, shaking his head, mouthing no. Dutifully, Carisi ignored it, ignored self preservation, everything that had been keeping him going the past week. “I’ll go, I’ll go. I won’t fight. Just don’t, _please_ don’t hurt him.”

He could see himself crying, but he couldn’t feel it, couldn’t feel the cold cascading down his face in thin rivulets. He was dissociating from his body, like he was watching a movie, trapped behind the screen. He couldn’t change ANYTHING- it all just played out, indiscriminate to his actions.

There was a taxi driving by, and Carisi watched it as he pushed himself onto his feet, praying the driver had seen what was going on. Though, his eyes off Alan for a simple moment, was enough for Barba to throw himself into action. He only heard the gunshot, didn’t see the gun go off, but he felt the bullet rush passed his shoulder, scarily close. He stood, motionless, staring forward as Rafael threw himself out of Alan’s arms, the man howling in rage as the lawyer ran toward him.

“Run!” The attorney screamed, bolting for the car.

Adrenaline fueled his every action, running coming as a second nature to him. His heart leaped with relief, that they’d escape. Though, it’d never be that easy. The snow covering the sidewalks had begun to melt under the weak sun, and in its absence, the cold had begun to seep back in. The wet, mushy snow solidified, coating the concrete in patches of awful, slick ice. The leather soles of his shoes propelled him until they struck one such patch, body tumbling forward as they were unable to find something to grab onto. The cold, rough cement tore at his skin as he skidded, grating against his cheek, blood welling up from the scrapes. In front of him, the car managed to start up, thrown into drive. Behind him, footsteps, two sets, quick.

He scrambled to his feet, hands slapping against the car’s smooth surface as he reached it. He grabbed the handle, hearing the door pop open, seconds away, Barba sitting ready to go in the driver’s seat-

Glass shattered and voices cried out in an unreadable cacophony of sounds and sensations. He knew it was distinctly familiar, but he didn’t realize why until he was back on the ground, blinking through streams of blood, newly blinded.

Shards trickled down onto his back from where his head was shoved through the car window.

“You want to run, huh?” Alan hissed in his ear, breath hot against his flesh. He felt something cold press up against his thigh, before a flash, an explosion- fire from the glass in his scalp, multiplied by the dozen, millions, flashing hot shock like wildfire through his nerves. 

“Try it again, Detective! _Try it!_ ” 

A wretched noise came from deep inside him, and he couldn’t move- he knew adrenaline was the only thing keeping him awake, but he didn’t know for how much longer, knowing shock would only dull the real pain for a few minutes.

“Barba, _go! GO!_ ” The wail tore from his throat, desperate. Tears plagued his voice as he felt hands curl around his chest, hoisting him up like a prized possession. 

“ _Let him go!_ ”

_No._

His entire body felt wet. Like it was raining, yet it wasn’t.

Touch was lost to him as his breaths slowed, sounds coming in muted and hollow. Voices, again, yelling, and a sharp slap, followed by a terrible thud. 

The noises stopped.

“Barba..” he whispered, quiet, broken.

The knowledge that he had failed sat with him as blackness ate through the red over his eyes, body falling limp as he was dragged away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry. This is what I've had planned, and I'm terrible for it. I love dangling candy in front of babies and then absolutely obliterating it via stomps. 
> 
> Also just some canon things about this story:  
> . Barba is completely gay, and very educated about LGBT matters (though he is quiet about it)  
> . Carisi is supportive of LGBT people, but he's not that educated, and feels its sinful (mostly in regards to himself)  
> . Carisi's rapist's full name is Alan Hall. August's mother's name was Darcy Whittier. Beverly's is Beverly Silvia Ward.  
> . This story will have around three more chapters.


End file.
